


The Twenty-Third Century Files

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Ficlets, M/M, Sci-Fi, Short Stories, The Excultus Universe, future London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 05:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Short stories, drabbles, extra scenes and ficlets from the Excultus universe—all featuring spoilers from the main story. (Don't go near these unless you've read Excultus.)





	1. Congratulations

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back to 'Skultusverse, folks. Buckle in for a bit of all sorts. This is the bonus content disc from Excultus and it'll be expanding all the time. Each chapter here will be a story in its own right and start with a summary to give you a clue of what you're about to read. If you don't fancy it, go ahead and skip to the next.
> 
> Here's the full list of content:
> 
> 1\. [**Congratulations**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/31800228) \- Scotland Yard reacts to some happy news.  
>  2\. [**Stranger**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/31878225) \- Luke and Kieran's first meeting.  
>  3\. [**Try**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/31928961) \- Mycroft's POV of his first night with Greg. _NSFW._  
>  4\. [**Trouble**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/32001702) \- Greg and TJ receive a visitor at their office.  
>  5\. [**Mess**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/32001876) \- Kit's POV of Greg's accident at The Range.  
>  6\. [**Rest**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/32002446) \- 5k; gentle sex. Greg and Mycroft's first time after Greg leaves hospital. _NSFW._  
>  7\. [**Pup**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/32081301) \- TJ and Greg's first meeting.  
>  8\. [**Protect**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/32081514) \- Kit gives self-defence training to Lexi.  
>  9\. [**Awaken**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/32081673) \- Greg and Mycroft, ten years after Excultus. _NSFW._  
>  10\. [**Family**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/34965299) \- Five ficlets themed around Olivia, the girls and TJ.  
>  11\. [**Commander**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/34965422) \- Four ficlets themed around Kit Medlock.  
>  12\. [**Restraint**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827354/chapters/34967648) \- 4k; sex, feeding and restraints. _NSFW._
> 
> Come and say hi in the comments! x

 

**The Happy Couple ~ Scotland Yard ~ Back to Work**

_With love to Serynn on AO3 for the request: "Scotland Yard reacts." <3_

 

* * *

 

Every Monday, Dawn does cards for the week.

She used to take them round desk-to-desk, but it's a big department - it means they have a lot of birthdays. It's much easier to keep the cards on front desk, and catch people to sign them as they come back after lunch.

The week of Monday 9th February has the usual handful of birthdays - and three surprises.

Everyone reacts almost exactly the same.

The first one _(Glad you're on the mend! -_ featuring a cheerful cartoon badger on crutches) gets a big smile of relief.

"Lestrade, is it? Good... has he been discharged yet?"

"Wednesday," Dawn says to each of them, amused, as they sign it.

They then turn to the next card.

 _Sorry to hear you're leaving!_ \- big rainbow letters and stars.

"No way, who's leaving?" they say - then open the card, and see the name that she's written in sparkly purple pen inside. _"Lestrade?_ He's _leaving?"_

"Going private," Dawn says, even more amused, as they sign it.

"Lucky bastard," they all reply - or some variant of it - and leave Lestrade a cheeky little note with a grin, some of which they might regret when Commander Vickery comes to read the card later.

Then, they turn to the week's last - and perhaps most surprising - card.

 _Congratulations On Your Wedding..._ two gold rings, a crisp white tablecloth and scattered rose petals.

"Who's getting married?" they all say, startled - and open it up.

Most of them laugh.

"To cheer him up, yeah? He'll love that..." - then they start reading some of the handwritten messages.

Dawn knows she shouldn't enjoy the expression that crosses every single one of their faces, every single time - but she does.

"Hang on..." they all say. "Is this _for real?"_

Each time Dawn nods, fighting a grin.

"They're - ... _no._ This is a joke, right?"

Each she shakes her head, fighting all the harder. "Saturday," she said. "The day after Greg came round. Hospital chapel."

"But - but they weren't - ..."

"They were."

_"... really?"_

"Mm. Over a year, apparently."

 _"No._ You're kidding! They were _actually - ?"_

"Yep," Dawn says, her pink eyes sparkling. "Write something nice for them. There's a collection, too. We were thinking a hamper, but the commander suggested maybe something for the house."

"They got _married?"_

"He's Greg Holmes-Lestrade now."

"Holy shit... and they were - a _year?"_ Every single member of Cross-Human Relations then picks up the pen, and starts composing a startled but delighted message to the happy couple. "Jesus... can't believe it..."

Dawn grins, propping her chin on one hand. "Greg's had a busy week."

Little else is talked about all afternoon. It's spread widely outside of Cross-Human Relations by three, and Acting Commander Medlock from Armed Response ends up drawing quite a crowd in the canteen - confirming that it's true, and she was with them at the hospital Saturday night. They're married. For real.

And they're very happy.

One of the trainee constables comes in with an idea on Tuesday.

Dawn loves it. She looks online, picks a few and takes the print-outs to Commander Vickery, who is provoked into a rare smile. After being assured that the joke will be taken in good humour, she authorises the purchase.

By Thursday, all three cards have gained so many signatures that Dawn has to buy three more to fit them all. People keep coming up from other departments to sign them. Armed Response have done a separate collection - Dawn dreads to think - and the entire building is still talking about the news. Sadness for Greg's departure is matched only by startled delight at his marriage.

People start claiming they knew all along.

 _It was the way they looked at each other,_ they say. _You could just tell. Everyone was joking, but I knew there was more to it._

By the time another Monday comes around, the department has heard from Mycroft that Greg's feeling much better - happier by far to be at home, and doing marvellously in his new husband's care. It's agreed that he's well enough to come in for cake and coffee - to say goodbye, and so they can wish him all the best for the future.

The entrance hall is packed out by the time the Holmes-Lestrades arrive.

A delighted Greg is presented with nine separate cards full of signatures. He's hugged by nearly every person at Scotland Yard, all relieved just to see him alive and well. Everyone begs him to come back and visit. Greg's new husband stays close to him throughout, checking on him, making sure he's alright - looking amazed by the sheer amount of fondness being shown to them both. By the time it gets to the presentation, they're already overwhelmed.

Commander Vickery stands up, and says a few words - thanking Greg for the year that he's given to Scotland Yard, and wishing him the very best in his future endeavours - and, with congratulations to them both, she then offers a gift on behalf of Cross-Human Relations.

Cufflinks - matching.

Crowns.

The reference rises affectionate laughter from the crowd. Greg beams as he realises, and even Mycroft is unable to hide a grin.

A few weeks later, Mycroft wears them on the morning he returns to Scotland Yard.

He greets Dawn pleasantly as he removes his coat. He confirms Greg is well - recovering beautifully, and considering an office for the new business. It's round on Baker Street. He promises to convey Dawn's best to his husband this evening, and thanks Dawn for her interest.

Then - with a small smile - he tells her he'll be back to see Amelia in a few minutes.

He's just taking a marriage certificate up to the lovely young ladies in the Admin department.

He needs to ask if they mind updating his next-of-kin.

 


	2. Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke and Kieran's first meeting. Greg's been attacked in his flat, and Luke's just been threatened at the door like some sort of predator - but an encounter with a stranger is about to change his life.

* * *

 

_Thanks to hidetheknives for this awesome request, which takes place shortly after the events of[Chapter 19](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11965971/chapters/28168902). _

 

* * *

 

_Prick._

_Puffed-up ginger prick._

Luke had taken himself down an alley for a cigarette to calm down. He couldn't smoke the damn thing fast enough - he couldn't stop his hands shaking. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that in his entire fucking life.

Who did Holmes even think he was?

Talking like he owned Greg.

Talking like he knew something.

 _'I'm sure the full story will reach you in time'._ What was that supposed to mean? _'Greg is about to be transferred to the very best of hands. He has no need whatsoever for yours'._

"Fucking tosser..." Luke muttered, fumbling for another cigarette. He jammed it into his mouth and tried to breathe. "Jumped-up, arrogant fucking arsehole..."

He'd sped over here as soon as he heard. Just trying to be here for Greg, and this is what he got - threatened at the door. _So much for friendship._ This was the problem with being decent to people, he thought, as he clicked angrily at the lighter. They took it for granted. When you were a good mate, you were forgettable. People ditched you the second someone vicious and beguiling came along.

 _Holmes,_ though.

Holmes of _all people._

Fucking _Holmes._

It was unbearable. From the look of things, it was still going on - which meant that Greg had lied. Luke snorted around his cigarette, breathing the first lungful deep and letting it calm him. It explained why Greg had turned him down. All the same, it made him fucking angry.

A few words to the right people on Monday, and Greg could go ahead and kick his lying up a notch.

Luke wasn't putting up with this shit.

He wasn't having Greg's toffee-nosed side-shag talk to him like that. _Let the higher-ups get wind of it,_ he thought - let Vickery find herself answering some awkward questions. That'd put an end to it. Get them separated.  _Love's young dream. Fuck right off._

Luke leant against the wall and smoked, scowling.

As he did, he lived again the moment Holmes had run his tongue across his teeth - said the name _'Greg',_ like it belonged to him - looked Luke up and down like he was nothing.

_See if I'm nothing when I get you dragged into HR for unprofessional conduct, you arrogant cock-sucker... see what you think of me then..._

Movement caught Luke's eye at the end of the alley.

He glanced towards it. A young guy in a sharp grey coat - well-dressed - white shirt. He seemed to be looking for something. As he spotted Luke he hesitated, and glanced back the way he'd come - checking that he'd not been followed. He slid his hands inside his coat, thinking.

He then slipped nervously into the alley.

As he made his way along, Luke smoked and wondered.

The stranger reached him, cleared his throat with care, and said,

"Sorry... do you - have a light?"

 _What's this about?_ Luke fished inside his pocket, and handed it over without a word.

"Thanks," the stranger mumbled. "Thanks, that's - kind."

Luke frowned around his cigarette. "No worries."

As he lit up, Luke tried not to notice more about him - the eyebrow slash, the diamond earring - the bone structure. He was better looking than half the girls in admin, and not wearing all the make-up that they did. His skin put him somewhere in his mid-twenties, but he had a seriousness to his features that kept him from looking young.

As he handed the lighter back to Luke, a small smile came with it.

"Thanks," he said again.

Luke slipped the lighter away.

There was silence for a second as they smoked.

"Are you - with the police?" the stranger asked.

Luke wondered what the note of hope was about. "I'm - ... yeah. Sort of."

"... 'sort of'?"

"Armed Response. Firearms."

"Oh - w-wow. Alright." The guy blew smoke, fighting a smile. "You - look it."

"Oh..." The dark-eyed glance was kind of interesting, Luke thought. He had a feeling he was being hit on. _Miracles never cease._ "Thanks..."

The guy smiled, a little embarrassed. He glanced down at his shoes.

"Are you a - friend of Mycroft Holmes?" he asked.

Luke's jaw locked.

He bit back an immediate 'no', wondering at once if this guy was some kind of journalist - then wondering how a _journalist_ would know Mycroft Holmes - then wondering how _anyone_ would know the miserable bastard, if not through work.

"Both at Scotland Yard," he said at last. It was the most civil thing he could manage right now. "Why? D'you know - ?"

The stranger gave a humourless smile, dragging on the cigarette.

"Sort of." Another flash of dark eyes came Luke's way - unhappy eyes. "It was... ten years ago. Long story."

Ten years ago would put this guy in his teens. Luke frowned, curiosity prickling at the back of his neck. He dragged on his cigarette.

"Yeah?" he said. _Alright, buddy. I'll take the bait._ "Is there a short version?"

The stranger huffed.

"Not really. I - wish there was." He rubbed his thumb along the cigarette, thinking it over for a while. "He's not changed much. From what I saw."

Luke pressed his teeth into the side of his cheek. "Doesn't surprise me."

"Treated people like that ten years ago, too." The man shuddered a little, catching himself. "Sorry - you're - just trying to smoke."

"No... no, it's - ..." Luke watched the stranger pull on his cigarette, looking almost scared. "Always been a prick, has he?"

He expected an awkward laugh or a smile - some shared amusement that you weren't meant to call a mutual acquaintance a prick within seconds of meeting each other - but no humour lightened the stranger's expression.

"Yeah. Y-Yeah, he has." He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Did - somebody get attacked? In the building? Sorry - I know you probably can't talk about - ... police, and all that."

Luke pulled his lower lip between his teeth.

"Barely know anything I _could_  say," he muttered. "It's - my mate. I dunno what happened. Came to try and see him, but... well, looks like Holmes is taking care of it..."

Something awful - something cold - flashed across the stranger's face.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Yeah, he will be." He dropped the cigarette, barely smoked, to the ground. "Bet your life."

Luke's heart tightened. What did _that_ mean?

"Listen," the stranger said, no longer meeting Luke's eyes. "This is - ... you should ignore me. You should forget about it. I know you will, and I don't blame you. I'd forget about it too, if I could. Just - watch out for Holmes, alright?"

Luke's heart clenched. _What the fuck?_

The stranger turned away. "He's not what he says he is."

He began to leave.

"Hey - " Luke stepped forward, grabbing for his arm. "Whoa - hang on - "

The guy tried to pull free. "No - no, I've got nothing else to - "

Luke held on. "I think you have."

"I really haven't. Let me go."

"What d'you mean, 'not what he says he is'?"

"What does it sound like?" the stranger burst out, distressed. "Just - don't be alone with him, okay? And say goodbye to your mate now. While you can. Now let me go - please - just forget about it."

_Jesus Christ._

"Are you serious?" Luke's heart felt like it was turning into iron. _"'Forget about it'?_ What the fuck, 'say goodbye'? Look - you can't just drop that then storm off."

"You won't believe me." The stranger flushed, frightened. "You won't believe a fucking word of it. So just let me go, will you? Do us both a favour."

"How d'you _know_ I won't believe you? Try me."

"Because I've tried before. And nobody ever believes it. _Nobody._ Not until it's too late."

Luke's breath snagged in his throat. "Look," he said. "Holmes _isn't_ a friend of mine. Never has been. Not by a long shot. The guy's a cunt, and he's in there with my mate right now. What the fuck should I know?"

The man's eyes shuttered.

"Look, you're - searching for a vampire, right?" He swallowed. He wrenched his arm free. "Stop searching. That's all I'll say."

_Christ almighty._

"A - ... did you say _'vampire'?"_ Luke wondered if this was a wind-up. "There's no such thing as vampires."

The man exhaled, shaking. He pushed his hands back through his hair.

"J-Jesus... Jesus - you don't even know - ... and you're the police. Christ. He's got it good this time."

 _Holy shit._ As the stranger turned to leave again, Luke seized his arm, pulled him back along the alley and stepped in front of him.

"Stop," he ordered, his voice hard. The guy shook, trying to back away. "Stop. Alright? This is - ... you're freaking me out. Greg's up there with Holmes. If he's in danger - "

"You're _all_ in danger. All of you."

"What the fuck from? From _Holmes?"_ Luke kept hold of his arm. "You say I'm not gonna believe you. Try me. Let's fucking find out."

The man pushed his hands over his face.

"Jesus, I shouldn't have - ..." He heaved in a long breath, trying to calm himself. "Look, if you - if you _mean_ it, then - meet me in two hours. I've got to see someone. But then I'm - ... there's a park off Vauxhall Bridge Road. Bessborough Gardens. Meet me there, and - and I'll tell you - and you'll call me a liar. And it'll all happen anyway. But at least I tried to warn someone this time."

Luke's heart twisted. "What's your name?"

The guy looked down between them. A visible shiver passed through his shoulders. "Kieran," he mumbled.

Luke felt it sink a little into his soul.

"I'm - Elwood," he said. "ARS Commander." He hesitated, looking down at the dark eyes beneath the eyelashes - the neat curve of Kieran's top lip - the bone structure that could be on the cover of a glossy magazine. "It's - 'Luke'. To friends."

Kieran hesitated.

"Right..." He glanced up - deep, wary eyes. "Luke."

Luke's stomach curled. He found himself fixed into place by those eyes. There was something about them - something that seemed to see him, and only him. Something a little desperate.

Kieran searched his face.

"You won't be there," he said. Luke watched him draw a breath, pale and afraid. "I know you won't be. I - I don't even know why I'm talking to you... I just - Christ, I can't see it all happen again. Not again."

Luke's pulse slugged against his ribs.

"You can trust me." He gripped Kieran's arm, gently. "Promise. I'll - see you in two hours, right? We'll go to a pub. There's loads on Vauxhall Bridge. And you can find out how much I'll believe."

Kieran's eyes flickered.

"Don't tell Holmes you met me," he said. "Please. If he knows I'm here - "

"I'm not telling the wanker anything."

"Good." Kieran hesitated. "Your - friend, too. Don't tell him. He's - he'll just - ... God. I have to go. S-Sorry."

He pulled away.

"I'll - see you there," he mumbled. "If you're there."

"I will be." Luke watched him move away along the alley; his heart tightened. "'Bye."

Kieran glanced back - a soft, nervous flash of those eyes - and then he turned out of sight.

In the silence that came, Luke lit another cigarette.

Two hours later, as he stepped through the gates of Bessborough Gardens, he saw the same eyes lift to him in the darkness. Kieran was waiting for him on a bench, nervous.

Luke watched his whole face open with relief.

Two days later, sitting together on Luke's sofa, Kieran told him something else.

Luke had figured it out already.

Kieran hadn't had anything at the pub that first night - wouldn't have coffee - made an excuse not to get a takeaway. It all fit with the story. Holmes had killed Kieran's parents - murdered them, last time. They'd been in a vampire rights group. Two plus two made four.

Kieran's desperate relief made him grin. Luke laughed and nudged his arm, and told him it was fine - he didn't care. He had all kinds of friends.

It didn't matter what you were, he told Kieran, gazing into those shy black eyes. It didn't matter how you'd been born. It mattered that you were a decent person.

They talked until two in the morning, late night TV flickering in the background.

Kieran had survived on blood bags for years. He had to buy them illegally on the internet. ("You going to put the cuffs on me?" he teased, those dark eyes shining. "Hero police officer...") He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually drunk from someone.

Doing it made him nervous - he didn't want people to think he was a monster, like Holmes - a predator - he wished the blood bags didn't make him sick, but it was the only option.

He could never ask someone to do that for him.

 

* * *

 

 _Author's Note:_   _[here's what Kieran was doing in the two hour gap](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11965971/chapters/28370108)._

 


	3. Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg's first night - from Mycroft's POV. Explicit sex; 2700 words.

* * *

 

_All my love and thanks go to tetsugoushi and sailorchiron, who both said they'd like to see Mycroft's POV of[his meeting and one night stand with Greg](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11965971/chapters/27059367). _

_I thought some more of 3.30am would be a nice addition... enjoy._

 

* * *

 

He looked like a 'Greg'.

It was something about his brow - the curve of his mouth, and his chin - the soft scruff of his hair, more appealing the more pillow-ruffled it became. He had the covers bundled up around his neck, enjoying their hug as he slept with a peace that made Mycroft's soul soften just to witness it.

He couldn't stop looking at the man.

What was sleep, compared to this? Lying here, warm, in a stranger's bed - with a stranger whose gentle good looks had cut Mycroft's breath at twenty paces. It wasn't an arrogant beauty Greg had. Nothing could be further from the truth. He looked... fun. _(How long has it been since I last used that word...?)_ Mischievously handsome - the sort of man one expected to come with an enormous collection of nieces and nephews who adored him; a man who would look irresistible in winter jumpers; a man whose smile came without a single condition, and came from the soul.

He was astonishing.

And they'd made love.

 _Is that term even in use anymore?_ Mycroft didn't imagine many of the young were 'making love' in this day and age. He didn't think anybody was. In the quiet darkness of Greg's bedroom, he permitted his heart to have it - a secret - a softness - that gentle phrase, borrowed from the pages of the books that he adored, from a world lost long ago when people still made love.

 _'It was no dream; I lay broad waking'._ Nine years. Nine years, so embedded in his chosen celibacy that he'd even cared very little about the approaching milestone of a decade.

Then one cancelled train, and... Greg.

_Relax. You can touch me. It's just you and me here._

When was the last time he'd been alone with someone like this? Amelia, most likely... perhaps the last time he'd fed. The last time he'd grown ill enough, lonely enough, to pay someone to be alone with him. _God help me._ He couldn't even recall the last time he'd had a pleasant conversation with someone - and yet a man who looked like his every daydream was now sleeping soundly beside him.

It seemed impossible.

People were usually wary around Mycroft. He often wondered if some small part of them sensed the truth - that he was not like them. They were uneasy in his presence. _With good reason,_ he reminded himself. _All creatures should fear a monster._ It was no wonder that 'pleasant conversation' was now lost to him, and he did not blame them for a moment. Humanity had every possible reason to shun him.

He would advise them to.

He was dangerous; he wasn't to be trusted. He would never lay a hand on one of them again, with God as his witness, but isolating himself was the safest way to ensure it. He was glad that humans sensed on some level what he was - a predator - and stayed away. It kept them safe. It was for the best.

It was good, and it was right, that he was lonely.

But Greg had swept straight through.

Mycroft had even wondered for a short while if his initial assumption of 'human' had been wrong. That sort of easy friendliness and social courage could sometimes mark out a lycan - but there were no signs of transformation anywhere in Greg's flat, and he lacked the boisterousness and activity of mind that usually came with the condition. If he'd spent a lot of time with werewolves, Mycroft wouldn't have been surprised - but he clearly wasn't one himself.

As he watched Greg sleep, overwhelmed by the mere chance to do so, Mycroft had reached a simple and heart-wrenching conclusion - Greg was extraordinary. He was human, simply a rare one. He'd reached through Mycroft's psychological security systems as if the things just didn't exist, undone them as easily as Mycroft's buttons, then pulled him happily into bed.

_Dear God. Nine years._

A dazzling end to the celibacy, at least...

 _You're gorgeous,_ Greg had said. Mycroft's heart tightened at the memory. _Stay the night, will you? Don't go rushing off._

He glanced nervously at the pocket-watch now lying on the dresser. _Almost half-past three._ He couldn't linger, as much as he might wish to. Work. Any other weekend, and this day could have belonged to Greg. They could have woken late - talked softly - perhaps, if Greg wanted, taken a walk together. Perhaps just laid here, long into the afternoon. Shared.

At the thought, Mycroft gently bit his lip.

 _What is the etiquette of a mature one night stand?_ Was twice a liberty too far? Mycroft wasn't sure. He hadn't the prior experience to know. He knew that Greg was warm and he was wonderful, and that his hands were gentle, and his patience had somehow settled nine years of lonely nerves. He'd been happy to let Mycroft sleep here beside him all night, unclothed together.

That surely had to count for something.

Nestling closer, Mycroft's heart squirmed as sleepy arms admitted him into their hold. Greg hummed, held him, and kissed his forehead.

His breathing soon thickened, as he returned to sleep.

Mycroft stroked his back gently for a while - thinking - calming himself to the half-forgotten feeling of skin beneath his fingertips. _He has the presence of self to say no if he wishes,_ he thought. He would probably even have the grace to let Mycroft down compassionately. Nine lonely years. Was it so unthinkable to want this? Greg had enjoyed making love - held him, afterwards - asked him to stay. It was surely alright to hope.

Mycroft let his touch ease lightly round to Greg's stomach.

Greg stirred - soft, quiet sounds. Mycroft's pulse picked up as Greg made them for him, murmuring with enjoyment in his sleep. He stroked fondly the knife-scar whose providence he longed to know - the bear-paw tattoo that he assumed was a gloriously youthful indiscretion - the trail of dark hair from navel to cock. As he felt his way down it, Greg gave a small shiver and shifted.

At the nudge of sleepy hardness against his thigh, Mycroft's breath quickened.

 _Yes... oh, please, yes..._ he let his fingers wrap, gathering around Greg's cock with tentative hope. As he stroked, he tried to comprehend the day he was about to have - remembering _this:_ the faint, waking moans of a lover, shivering and growing hard for him in his hand, wanting him again. How could he just go to work, as if the world were still the same?

Greg reached sleepily for his mouth, and tried to kiss him.

Mycroft felt his soul twinge with desperation. _Oh, God - oh, I wish I..._ he tilted his head, offering instead his jaw - and Greg contentedly kissed there instead, trembling with growing pleasure as Mycroft tenderly hardened his cock. The sounds Greg was making were exquisite - soft secrets in the darkness. Mycroft's every nerve erupted into flame as he listened.

He wanted to please - to let Greg rest here, lie comfortably, and understand in some way that he was special.

As he eased Greg onto his back, brown eyes - fogged with excitement - flickered sleepily into his own.

Greg smiled, flushing. _God help me._ "H-Hi..."

Mycroft's chest constricted. "Is this - ...?"

Greg stiffened as pleasure washed over his face.

"Yeah..." he breathed, and rocked his swollen prick up into Mycroft's hands. "Oh... y-yeah - "

_God... oh, God..._

Mycroft reached for lubricant.

For a while, simply this - foreplay - sleepy whispers and hands, slicking Greg's cock and slowly stroking him in the darkness, watching him grip the sheets and stretch and huff for relief. Greg then reached for him, pulled him closer, and with some shifting slipped his hand between Mycroft's thighs.

Greg's eyes were magnificent. They gazed at Mycroft with a fondness that they didn't try to conceal. They seemed to like seeing him enjoy this - liked his sounds, liked his blushing, liked watching him grow restless as his body relaxed around Greg's fingers.

It would be easy to come this way - sleepy together, gently.

Mycroft wanted more.

Another condom. Opening it, nervous - his stomach fluttering as Greg watched. Something about the sharing of this moment made him feel fretful. _I want you. I want this._ It was honest, and it set his heart pounding. He rolled the condom gingerly into place, aware of Greg still watching him breathlessly, his own hands shaking, his body now aching where he wanted Greg to be. He couldn't wait any longer. He gripped Greg's cock with care, climbed astride him as he shook, and with gentle guiding they found their way together - slow, panting, drawing this out. Mycroft braced his hands on Greg's chest, and bit his tongue to settle himself through the flush of discomfort. It was worth it. Greg was stone-hard - big enough to ache a little, a stretch so satisfying it cut Mycroft's breath. _Oh, God... oh, I would ride you every night... heave me apart, every bloody night... oh fuck, you feel exquisite -_

As tender fingers slid around his cock, Mycroft's heart jumped. Greg began to pet him - distracting him from the ache - and he whimpered and bit down at once, wild with the gorgeous little strokes - coaxing, comforting strokes. Greg's eyes were soft. _Here,_ they said. _It's okay._ Mycroft panted, bearing down, and let the gentle touches calm him - let his breathing come deep and easy again, then began to move his hips in sleepy, uncertain circles.

 _God alive, when did I last...?_ It didn't matter. He didn't care. It felt too good for anything to have existed before. A lover, laid between his thighs - _this_ lover - those hands, those eyes, this broad and gorgeous chest to rest his weight upon. It was half past three in the morning, and he had a lover moving gently inside him. Greg's mattress creaked as they stirred - steady, quiet sounds. The noise was oddly calming. It reminded Mycroft to breathe.

Tender hands felt their way up his stomach - admiring the restless rocking of his body, and he gasped with it, shaking. Greg's fingers splayed across his chest.

The first soft brushes of his nipples made him jerk with a whimper. _Oh God, please - please just..._ Greg seemed to hear his plea as clearly as if he'd spoken it aloud. He began to toy with Mycroft - little flicks, strokes, light and gentle, tiny teasing sparks of pleasure tumbling over Mycroft's chest as he concentrated on the rhythm of sex. _Oh, fuck... oh, God..._ sex - _sex,_ after all these years... his thighs were aching, sweat shining on his shoulders. As Greg began to make noise beneath him, he was unable to bite back his moans. He'd forgotten sex could sound like this. He'd forgotten people could even communicate this way - forgotten what it was like to hear a tight, breathed groan, and know that it meant _please, more of that -_ forgotten what it was like to let out a whimper, and have a lover respond at once, gripping his hips, pulling him down a little harder, helping him to find what he needed.

This felt more honest than anything he'd shared with someone in months.

Years.

Greg was gazing at him, lost in the sight of him. Mycroft moaned as their eyes locked, and Greg reached for his hands with a sleepy shiver - catching them, knotting their fingers tight. Gently he pulled, easing Mycroft to lean forwards over him - to place a hand either side of his head, and rock this way.

"Y-Yeah?" Greg whispered, their faces close - a breath away.

Mycroft's heart twisted. He shut his eyes, unable to bear it.

He wanted to kiss.

_But then - then I won't - ..._

He needed to know it was real. This was the most real experience he'd had in nine years, and he needed to know. His mouth was full of poison. A monster's mouth. He _wanted_ this - this one, _pure_ moment - a man who wanted to touch him and sleep near him and feel his skin.

As if he were normal.

As if he were special.

"Feel good, love?" Greg breathed, gently stroking their noses.

 _Love._ Why did that suddenly make him want to cry? That little fondness. _Please don't let this be the only time. Please._

_Please, just you and me._

"Yes - " he whispered, forcing his throat to let him speak. He gripped Greg's hands for the strength. "Yes... it f-feels - sublime..."

Greg nosed at his cheek.

"Mm hmm? I like you this way..." He hesitated, as if fearing he were testing the rules - then kissed the edge of Mycroft's jaw. "I like seeing your eyes."

"Oh - _G-God_ \- ..."

Greg shivered, stirring. His face tightened. "I - might not last much - ... you f-feel really good like this..."

 _Fuck... fuck, oh fuck._ Mycroft opened his eyes and looked down.

Greg gazed back at him, brown eyes soft with the longing to come. As Mycroft held them, panting, he realised something with a rush that left him dizzy.

He wanted to fall in love.

 _Oh, Christ. I want this. I want this to be something._ Gentle sex, sharing, careful hands that were kind to his body, wanting him to come too. In this moment, he had everything. He didn't want to give it up. _Please. Please don't let this be the last time. Oh, God. Be my bloody boyfriend._ Four AM, making love with a stranger, and he was twenty-three again - stumbling between one-night-stands, longing for just one of them to stay - not to laugh at his tea collection, his old love stories bound as real books because it made them feel possible, his social anxiety and his affectionless childhood and his guarded glances. _Please, please. I'm so bloody lonely. I don't want to be lonely any longer. Please._

What was it Greg had said?

'Bit of a break-up'?

It didn't matter.

Right now, he was looking at Mycroft like no-one else existed in the world.

_Let me heal you._

_Heal me, too._

Greg was about to come - his face twisted, panting, moaning as he kept his eyes locked on Mycroft and pushed up restlessly, his gaze pleading. _A little more. Just a little more. Please._

Mycroft rocked harder, faster. The pleasure burned deeper and brighter with every movement now. He threw his head back and gasped, whimpering, reaching desperately for sounds to stifle the words that he knew were a single reckless rush away. He choked them back. _Please be with me. I never wanted to be a monster. Please show me normal._

As a wrecking wave of pleasure and relief began to sing its way through his body, he cried out and ground downwards in desperation - needing Greg deep, needing him _now_ \- only to feel Greg arch and buck upwards with a wrenching groan, arms dragging tight to heave Mycroft close.

They came together, pleading and gasping - holding each other through the throes.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later Mycroft paused beside the bed, fully-dressed in the darkness in his coat and his gloves. The early morning cold was waiting for him. He had work to do. He had to leave.

All too aware of the thickness in his throat, he laid a piece of paper on the pillow.

 _Clingy,_ he thought, gazing at it through the gloom. His neatest handwriting. His wrist-set number. A single, fragile kiss. _Over-eager._

He didn't care.

He wanted it too much not to try.

Just for once, in a decade, try.

He took a last look at the first person to reach for him in nearly a quarter of his life. Greg was asleep - more peaceful than ever, his hair more ruffled, his breathing deep and slow as he rested.

 _Exhausted,_ Mycroft thought. _Sated. Happy._

He gazed at Greg's face, committing every detail of it to memory. He hoped he saw it again soon.

He hoped this was the start of something - not the end.

Marvelling that life still had the means to make him hope, Mycroft left the flat as quietly as a shadow, and let himself out into the cold.

 


	4. Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the offices of Tierney and Holmes-Lestrade receive an unexpected visitor...

* * *

 

  _With thanks to everyone who voted Greg and TJ as their favourite 'Skultus friendship. <3_

 

* * *

 

The Harris case had looked like an easy one - a ‘bill-payer', as TJ had started calling them - the sort of humdrum case that kept the lights on and the rent paid. Mr John Harris had turned up at the offices of Tierney and Holmes-Lestrade back in October, and asked them to find out if his attractive half-elf wife of two years was having an affair.

In fact, as Greg had since come to learn, what Mr Harris actually wanted to find out was that his wife was definitely _not_ having an affair.

Disappointed by the answer they gave him (an uncompromising and pretty spectacular 'yes'), Mr Harris had decided the reasonable course of action here was not to pay his bill.

Greg was halfway through the traditional Monday morning phone call to reason with the oblivious arsehole when he heard someone come banging through the front door below.

" - erm - the thing is, Mr Harris…" he said, listening in concern as footsteps came pelting up the two flights of stairs towards the office. "… my colleague and I spent time finding that information out for you - and I know you'd have preferred a different outcome, but we still deserve to be - "

The office door burst open with a crash.

TJ shot through, slammed it shut and switched off the lights.

"Oh my God, we're in trouble - big trouble - _serious_ trouble - "

Greg blinked, now in the dark, with Mr Harris still shouting tearfully in his ear.

"What the hell's wrong?" he said.

TJ raced across the room. He wrenched the phone from Greg's hand and slammed it down on Mr Harris.

"Quick!" he gasped, seized Greg by the scruff of the neck and forced him out of his chair beneath the desk. "Shit, shit… oh, shit…"

"What the fuck have you done?" Greg hissed at him, as TJ wriggled under the desk beside him and tucked his legs in.

"Shhh! Shhh, just - "

"Who have you pissed off this time?"

"No-one! No-one, just - pretend we're not here, alright?"

"Fuzzball, you'd better have an _amazing_ bloody explanation for - "

The front door slammed a floor below.

"Oh my _God…"_ TJ whimpered, clutching fistfuls of his hair. "Shush - _please?_ I'll explain when she's gone."

_"She?"_ said Greg.

"Yes - look, just - " Footsteps were coming up the stairs. "Oh, _shit…"_

Greg fell silent. Together they listened to the slow tread coming nearer and nearer to the door, as it crossed Greg's mind that they should have called the police. After a lifetime of _being_ the police, you always forgot it was the sensible first port of call. His wrist-set was up on the desk. As he shifted to try and reach it, TJ grabbed for his arm in a panic and held it still.

At last, there came three resounding knocks upon the office door.

TJ curled both hands around his ears, now praying under his breath.

Greg waited. His heart thudded against his ribs in the silence. He just hoped it was a human - not a bloody half-orc. Not a gargoyle. Myke would never forgive him if he got himself murdered by a gargoyle a month before Christmas.

"Timmy?" called a pleasant voice.

Greg shot TJ a look of immediate concern.

TJ bit into his lip, and prayed harder.

"Timmy… are you in?" called the voice. "It's me."

Greg's jaw set.

He pinched TJ furiously in the ribs until he kicked and squirmed, and finally unscrewed his eyes.

_"Who the fuck is it?"_ Greg mouthed at him.

TJ gazed back in pale, round-eyed terror. He swallowed hard - then whimpered,

"It's _my grandma."_

Greg resisted the urge to throttle him.

It was a close call, but he managed it.

_"Christ almighty,"_ he said. "You are _fired._ You are _so fired_ there'll be scorch-marks on your arse in the morning. Get out from under my desk and let your grandma in. Bloody idiot."

 


	5. Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative POV: Kit Medlock's reaction to Greg's accident at The Range.

* * *

 

_With love for FJBryan, who requested Kit's reaction to[Greg's accident with the hard-light car in Chapter 39](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11965971/chapters/29887527)._

 

* * *

 

"Lestrade - "

The helmet turned dazedly towards her voice. It was a good sign. Kit dropped to her knees with the first aid pack, noting the fast rise and fall of his chest. He was trying to sit up, struggling - another good sign.

"Steady," she said, cracking open the kit. She put a hand on his chest to keep him down. "Stay as you are."

Lestrade obeyed, panting. The others arrived as she checked his arms and legs - no signs of serious pain - didn't look like he'd broken anything. They could sit him up.

As she got her arms beneath him, and Lestrade took tight of her biceps, she heard the door from the command stairs fly open with a crash.

Footsteps ran this way.

She glanced up - the Queen of Hearts, pale as death, his face set in panic.

He'd even outrun the boss.

"No broken bones," she said, as he knelt and reached at once for Lestrade's elbow - an urgent, solid grip - _I'm here._

Kit tried not to see it. She tried not to see the look on Holmes's face, nor feel Lestrade finally start shaking. She'd tried not to see him crying in the armory earlier, smoking and whimpering into his head-set. _Fuck me sideways, do any CID partners not end up shagging? You people are bloody rabbits..._

But this didn't look just like shagging.

That grip - that desperate grip.

Kit knew what it meant to hold onto someone like that. It was years since she'd done it, but she remembered it.

"Not as bad as it looked," she said to Holmes. "Bit woozy. Hit him full on..." She reached around the back of Lestrade's head, snapping open the clasp of his helmet. _Humour,_ she thought. _Keep this easy._ "Let's have this off you. See if you're half as pretty anymore, huh? Breaking a fall with your fucking face..."

As she began to pull it free, she felt Greg inhale.

"Brace, Lestrade. Might hurt."

Lestrade braced - gripping onto Holmes's arm.

He'd made a sorry fucking mess of himself. Blood all over from his nose and his mouth, smeared across the front of the visor. As the helmet came free he wretched and he spat, and Holmes let go of him so he could spit out the worst of it.

Kit took hold of him, pulled his face up and tilted it back so she could have a closer look. He crushed her hand as she did. She couldn't tell if his nose was broken - too much blood, too much mess - Lestrade was panting enough for it to be broken. Wiping the blood aside with her thumbs just produced a flood of more.

"Don't!" Lestrade gasped, as she gingerly pressed near the bridge. He spat blood down his front and grabbed for Holmes's hand. _"Don't."_

Holmes gripped him again. It calmed him enough to let Kit continue.

Kit could feel her entire squad now doggedly not noticing right along with her.

She'd never been so fucking proud of them.

"S'alright, Greg," she said, quiet. "Just let me see. Lea - get me gauze from the kit, will you?"

She packed his nose carefully - taking the opportunity to press at the bridge again. He didn't make much more noise as she did. The lucky bastard might just have gotten away with it.

"Right," she muttered. "Don't think you've broken your nose. You'd be crying, for a start... let's get you tidied up. Teeth all present and correct, yeah?"

Lestrade barely seemed to hear her. She supposed he'd have spat the teeth by now if they'd come loose. All he cared about was holding onto Holmes. _Christ, Greg, how'd you even manage that?_ She'd had Holmes pegged as the black widow type - fucks them and eats them. It was a miracle he was still here.

"You alright?" she heard Luke say. She didn't have time to check who he was asking. She had to get some of this blood cleaned up.

Lestrade was good with it - kept it together. His grip on Holmes's hand didn't falter once. Even when Kit found the spot that would produce the biggest bruises tomorrow, and he let out a whimper of pain, Lestrade didn't let the guy go. _Yep. Definitely more than just shagging._ She still couldn't quite believe it - that was a hell of a conquest. She made a mental note to get Lestrade drunk and ask for the story.

At last, she had him patched up enough to move him.

They got him onto a bench in the locker room. Pope went for warm water and a towel; Altenberg raided another first-aid kit for more gauze.

As Kit cleaned up the blood from around Lestrade's jaw, he searched the faces that were still gathered round. His forehead contracted, panting.

"S'Mycroft?" he said.

Kit glanced around - no sign. She hadn't seen him go.

Watching from the edge of the group, Luke gave a strange huff. "Fresh air," he murmured. "Saw him slipping out the side door."

_Really?_ Kit took the gauze that Altenberg handed her, tipping Lestrade's weary head back against the lockers. It seemed like quite a shift - holding Lestrade's hand one second, then suddenly shooting out for a cigarette.

"Not sure he's good with blood," Luke added.

There was an uneasy silence.

"Went drip-white," Pope mumbled, scuffing her boots against the floor.

"Shaking like a shitting chihuahua," added Wijesena. "Thought he was gonna puke."

Lestrade breathed it in; his eyes fell shut.

Only Kit saw.

Only Kit heard him whisper, under his breath. "Shit..."

 


	6. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4800 words - care, comfort and very loving sex; Greg and Mycroft's first time after he comes home from hospital. Written with love for BourbonNeat.

* * *

 

 _This longer scene (just shy of 5k) is written with enormous love and gratitude for[BourbonNeat,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat) who did an absolutely wonderful job in previewing the end of Excultus for me. _ _And she's now sick! Ack! Comfort smut is needed more than ever._

_Get well soon, Bourbon. You are wonderful. All my love. x_

 

* * *

 

Greg waited until the end of the phone consultation to ask.

"And, erm... Dr Garcia - bit awkward, but... you said 'light exercise' when I got discharged. I was wondering, what - _specific_ activities count as...?"

Gentle humour warmed the voice from his wrist-set.

"If you're asking me when it's safe to resume _sexual_ activity," she said, fond and discreet, "the answer is, 'when you feel well enough'. Like with any other exercise, start gently, and stop if you feel you need to."

Greg grinned, blushing to the edges of his ears.

"Right..." he said. "Thanks." He shifted on the sofa, pulling his feet up beneath him as he took a sip of tea. "Any tips on reassuring a nervous husband that I'll survive the attempt?"

Dr Garcia sounded like she was smiling.

"You're recovering beautifully, Greg. I'm happy to talk to Mycroft, if he'd like some reassurance of your progress. With heart complications it can be very normal for partners to experience a lot of anxiety... often, all that's needed is a calming environment, and to know that you're feeling safe."

 _Safe,_ Greg thought, smiling against the rim of his mug.

The best feeling in the world.

Nearly two weeks now - two weeks of waking late in Mycroft's arms, kissing slowly in the peace and showering together - dressing together - long and gentle days together. They took easy walks around London every afternoon, just to see the world again - just to feel at home in it, and remember what daily life was really like.

'Safe' had been something they took for granted once. Now, it felt like a miracle every morning. Excultus had begun to seem like a distant memory.

"Thanks, doc... same time next Wednesday, is it?"

"Or whenever you need me," she said. "Have a good week. Give Mycroft my best."

"I will. Thanks - 'bye."

As Greg hung up, the front door emitted a quiet triple bleep. He finished the last of his tea with a grin, getting comfortable, and the door opened to admit someone from the landing.

Greg's heart gave a happy skip as he appeared: coat, scarf and carrier bag; wedding ring, and a smile.

"Forgive me," Mycroft said, left the carrier bag by the door, and crossed at once to the sofa. He knelt, took Greg's face into his hands, and kissed him as if he'd been gone for hours. "The queue was enormous, and two machines were out of order... have I missed Dr Garcia?"

"You did." Greg slid his hands happily beneath his husband's heavy coat, grinning as gentle kisses dotted his words. "Says it sounds like I'm doing great. No concerns. Ring her if we need her, keep calm and carry on..."

"Excellent..." Mycroft wrapped both arms around him gently. "Tea, is it?"

"Mmhm... yes, please."

Mycroft hummed, kissed his cheek, and began to stroke his back through his jumper. "They hadn't any small jars of hazelnut spread, I'm afraid... you'll have to soldier bravely through a gigantic one..."

Greg grinned. He laid his head on his husband's shoulder, feeling another happy flush of it - _safe -_ safe, back in a world where queues at the check-out were the worst they had to worry about.

"Sure I'll cope," he murmured. "Somehow..."

Mycroft chuckled softly. "Mm... I had a feeling you'd manage." He stroked his fingers over the back of Greg's neck, stirring in a circle through his hair. "Your two week appointment. Feels like rather a miracle."

Greg breathed it in. "Feels like two years," he murmured.

"Mm." Mycroft hesitated, holding him. "I'm - very proud of you, Greg."

Greg smiled, enjoying the gentle stroking. "Why? What've I done?"

"You went through a great deal. To see you smiling a fortnight later is... very gratifying. You're a hardy soul, darling."

Greg huffed slightly. He nuzzled into his neck, quietening with the thought, and kissed the collar of Mycroft's coat. "Ask Livs how hardy I was without you," he said. "Might change your mind."

Mycroft's arms tightened. For a few moments they were quiet together, just holding each other. They didn't have to see another soul all day - nor tomorrow, either. They didn't even have to leave the couch.

Greg closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the rain still clinging to Mycroft's coat.

"I feel safe again... you know that?" Peace suffused through his veins. "Safe and sound. S'why I'm strong."

Mycroft smiled against his jaw. "It seems life is slowly finding its way back to normal for us."

A happy flicker crossed Greg's heart. _Start gently,_ he thought, _and stop if you feel you need to._ He nestled closer. "D'you have anything planned for the afternoon?"

"I need to help Olivia start her application to the academy... other than that, our walk at some point. Nothing else." Mycroft brushed a gentle thumb across his cheek. "I believe I promised you tea, didn't I? Before I grew sidetracked in adoring you..."

Greg smiled. "Tea and a cuddle on the couch?" he suggested.

Mycroft's lips curved.

"Idyllic," he said. He kissed Greg's forehead. "Let me go and fill the kettle. Your turn to choose a film, I think."

 

* * *

 

 _A calming environment,_ Dr Garcia had said. That meant bedtime - the quiet space at the end of the day.

Greg thought about it all afternoon. He wanted this to feel easy and safe - not a trial to be conquered, nor an issue to be negotiated. It had never been like that before, and he didn't want it to be now. He wanted normality. He wanted easy. He wanted it more than he'd even realised - another step away from the nightmare, and into comfort - back to what they'd had before.

Mycroft had looked after Greg with utter devotion for a fortnight. He'd not said a word about making love - not let his hands wander, not made any indication that such things had crossed his mind for even a second - just loved Greg, and cared, and kept watch.

 _When you feel well enough,_ Garcia said.

Mycroft had gone nine years without. He'd probably go nine years again, if Greg needed him to - never ask - never hint - just gently, lovingly wait.

It was why Greg wanted to try.

At ten, Mycroft quietly closed the lid of his laptop.

"I might have a shower before bed..." He kissed the crown of Greg's head, where it rested against his shoulder. "Is there anything you need before I go?"

Greg smiled, stirring. "M'fine. Go shower, gorgeous."

"Certain?"

"Mm hmm. I'll just finish this episode."

Mycroft placed his laptop aside. "Tell Anthea if you need me. I shan't be long."

Greg waited, contentedly watching the fish, until he could hear water in the pipes. He then switched off the television, turned out the lights, and made his way up to bed.

For every candle that he lit, the mirrored wardrobe doors produced another. He found music on his wrist-set - gentle piano and strings, as soothing as falling rain - and placed it safe by the bed. He undressed in the dark, working his way quietly through buttons, then took a moment to himself by the mirror.

The hospital had offered to repair his scars. _'Less noticeable',_ they'd said - even though the marks were covered by every shirt that Greg owned. There were only two people in the world who could ever notice the silvered curves at the crook of his neck. One of those people was Greg; the other was his husband. There was nothing shameful about them. It didn’t take a lot of thought to decide - Greg wanted them left as they were.

He rubbed them carefully as he held his own gaze in the mirror, naked in the candlelight.

He'd have other scars too, someday. Cleaner, neater ones. _We are not discussing this until April,_ Mycroft had said - and meant it. Greg hadn't pursued the matter. _You lost a lethal amount of blood. Your body needs to recover._

April, then.

April, and they'd start gently.

Until that day, there were other ways to feel close.

Greg settled down in bed, easing back the sheets to lie naked in the dark. He found himself aware of his own skin, and the flutter of honeyed light across his body. He'd been naked with Mycroft since the hospital - most mornings in the shower - but this felt different. He was naked in the hope of being held - being touched. He wanted Mycroft's skin stroking against his own, and he wanted those soft and heartfelt sounds he hadn't heard for far too long. He wanted to make love.

It made him feel oddly fragile.

He gently stroked his stomach as he waited, listening to the water running in the bathroom. Thoughts drifted through his mind; he wasn't surprised to find his cock stirring. Myke's freckle-scattered thighs... so long since he'd kissed them - the gasping softness of Myke's mouth, and the gripping of his hands... the way he begged sometimes. A little guilty, Greg took himself in hand and lightly stroked, biting down on sound, his breath deepening as he coaxed himself harder.

Pleasure tickled beneath the gentle skim of his fingers.

He closed his eyes, and let it build. _Myke in the shower, now... wet skin, and soap - enjoying it... fuck..._

As he heard the water cut, nerves softened Greg's arousal. He took his hand away, stirred against the pillows, and watched the door with apprehension.

He listened as Mycroft dried himself - hung the towel up on the radiator - brushed his teeth.

The door then opened; light spilled into the bedroom.

Mycroft blinked in surprise as he found Greg on the bed. The wide-eyed look rounded as he took in the candles, the lowered sheets and his husband's body.

Noticing Greg's cock, swollen and unhidden from his gaze, Mycroft flushed.

He pulled his dressing gown gently to cover his chest.

"I'm - not sure your consultant would - ..." he managed. He was trying his hardest not to gaze at Greg's body.

Greg stretched. He wanted to be looked at; he wanted to be wanted.

"I asked. Earlier, on the phone..." He kept his voice soft and quiet, his eyes gentle. "She said if I feel well enough... if we take it slow, and go easy..."

He watched the prospect of taking this slow raise a number of emotions in his husband's face: chief among them, yearning; and in a very close second, concern. Mycroft remained where he was in the bathroom door.

"You - nearly died. You were nearly killed, Greg." His voice shook. "I - ... i-if I hurt you... if I hurt you _now,_ after everything we've - ..."

Greg held out a hand.

"Come talk with me?" He tried a gentle smile. "S'important."

Mycroft nervously came nearer. He sat down at the very edge of the bed, adjusting his dressing gown again, and kept his eyes carefully north of Greg's neck.

Greg took his hand. He wove their fingers, gently.

"It'd be like anything else," he said. He stroked Mycroft's palm with his thumb. "Try it, take it easy... stop, if starts feeling like it's too much for now..."

Mycroft's fingers shook a little. Greg watched him swallow.

"Two weeks - seems - ..."

"Dr Garcia's pleased with how I'm doing. Says you can call, if you'd like to hear it for yourself..." Greg sat up gently, shifting close across the bed. He placed a kiss to Mycroft's shoulder, and felt a shiver run up his husband's neck in response. "I know you're nervous, love. I know it feels like I'm - fragile, maybe. But I'm feeling a lot better."

Mycroft shuddered.

"You - can't imagine," he whispered. "How close, we came to - ... how certain I was that I'd lost you. The thought of - rushing - h-hurting you - Greg, I - ..."

Greg laid a hand on Mycroft's thigh, kissing the side of his neck. The damp tips of red hair brushed Greg's cheek.

"We came close to the wire," he murmured. "I know, gorgeous. But we came back, safe and sound. S'been two weeks... we're on the mend now. Both of us. And I'd - kinda like to get close again... you and me."

Mycroft's breath shallowed.

"Just lie down a while," Greg said, softly. "Be together..."

He stroked his mouth up Mycroft's neck - lingering behind his ear, breathing the scent of clean hair and clean skin.

"Take another step back to normal," he whispered.

Mycroft was silent for some time; Greg watched him fiddle nervously with the tie of his dressing gown. "I-If you - ... felt even the _slightest_ discomfort - ..."

"I'd tell you. Promise." Greg eased his arms around Mycroft's waist from behind. "I wouldn't undo all your hard work, love."

As he reached for the sash of Mycroft's dressing gown, he felt his husband's chest expand.

"Can I undo this?" he asked, soft.

Mycroft trembled slightly. It took a moment for the answer to come.

"Y-Yes."

Greg's pulse quickened. He slid the sash apart, taking his time.

"Been missing you, gorgeous... few days now..." As the tie came undone, he brushed his hands across the skin beneath - Myke's stomach, his waist - his bare skin, warm and clean and smooth. He felt like heaven. Greg had never been so aware of how Mycroft felt. Every flicker of contact tingled against his palms. "Sweetheart... God, you're so soft..."

Mycroft's shiver of desperation tightened Greg's stomach muscles.

"Greg..." He swallowed, stirring as Greg's hands wandered over his body. "Oh, _Greg..."_

"Christ, when you say my name like that... d'you know what it does to me?" Greg reached up, gently loosening the robe from Mycroft's shoulders - slipping back the navy silk with care, revealing his softly-scattered freckles to the candlelight. "Oh, love... you're so _beautiful._ I'm the luckiest man in the world..."

He eased the robe down Mycroft's arms, and let it slide free down the curve of his back. Mycroft stifled a little sound of pleasure, shivering again as his skin was bared. He bit down into his lip.

Greg settled closer behind him.

He slipped his arms back around Mycroft's waist, and trailed his mouth along his shoulder - hungry and soft, enjoying the taste of clean skin as he explored. He'd missed these shoulders. He'd missed them so much. He could feel quivers of pleasure coursing through Mycroft's back with every touch, and it was heating his blood.

"You been missing me too, love?" he whispered, pressing his cock against the curve of Mycroft's back.

Mycroft's breath hitched. "I..." He let his head fall back against Greg's shoulder, flushing. "I - n-need you to be alright, Greg."

The rasp of friction against Greg's cock was impossibly good. He shivered with the feeling, rocking once or twice - just moving gently, enjoying the stroke of heat and his lover's skin.

"M'alright, sweetheart," he breathed. "I promise... please - let me prove it."

Mycroft swallowed down on a whimper. He turned in Greg's arms, leant close and kissed him, combing his fingers slowly through Greg's hair. _God... yes... yes, gorgeous. Please_ . Relief rushed through Greg's chest as they kissed. Myke's body felt sublime as it cosied against his own, warm and smooth and silky-skinned - and so _close_ \- so _touchable._ Stirring hardness grazed Greg's stomach, pulling a groan from him against Mycroft's lips. He moved his hands with longing over Mycroft's back and thighs, kissing him deeply - ardently. He'd missed this so fucking much.

Long minutes - long, slow minutes of kissing, and gently stroking, hardening together and just breathing - then Mycroft eased him onto his back against the pillows.

"Rest..." he whispered against Greg's mouth, meeting each of his restless kisses. His fingertips stroked lightly over Greg's jaw. "Rest, darling... lie down for me."

Greg's pulse jittered in his throat. His fingers tensed gently on Mycroft's thighs. "I want you - please, sweetheart... I want to feel you."

Mycroft shivered. He eased close, and let their bodies press - let them slide together gently, as Greg's hands roamed his sides with longing.

"I'm here," he whispered, cradling Greg's face - drinking kisses from his mouth. "Here to touch. Here to feel."

 _"Christ_ \- M-Myke..." Greg's stomach jumped as Mycroft's cock nudged against him. _Fuck, gorgeous, you're so hard... you want me, too, sweetheart? You want to get close again..._ he felt his prick strain with hope. "Myke, I - I really need you. M'not kidding."

Mycroft drew another slow kiss from his desperate mouth - calming him, hushing him - strokes of lips that lingered, the tender brush of his tongue.

"Lie back," he whispered, as they parted. His grey eyes shone in the honey-glow of the candles. "Let me tend to you. Just rest. Tell me the moment you need to stop."

Greg swallowed, breathing something out - some worry he hadn't even realised he'd been holding. _It's fine. It's all okay. It's not gone... he wants me..._

"I love you," he whispered, as Mycroft dipped beneath his chin - began to kiss his collarbones and his neck - tiny kisses as soft as the candlelight, perfectly slow. Greg's chest heaved. "Oh... f-fuck... I love you..."

"I adore you." Mycroft's hand soothed across his stomach. "You are my world. I will never hurt you again."

Greg bit into his lip as Mycroft's fingers skimmed close to his cock - petting the intimate skin below his navel, winding their gentle path to where he needed them most.

At the last moment, they teased away onto his thigh.

Greg groaned, rocking up. _Please, gorgeous... please..._ Mycroft kissed the bear paw tattoo upon his chest, stroking the inside of his thigh with utter gentleness and ignoring his huffed moans, giving him this instead: slow - teasing - taking it easy.

From tattoo, Mycroft made his way to Greg's ribs - descending them idly like a ladder, just firm enough not to tickle, light enough to make Greg squirm and pant. He nuzzled Greg's stomach, trailing kisses over every inch, then reached navel-height as Greg began to beg. He brushed his mouth from navel to knee, kissing and stroking and promising, ignoring with diligence the little nudges, desperate gaps and hopeful rises of Greg's hips. The decadent exploration of Greg's body took almost fifteen minutes. By the time he turned, with a feather-light kiss, to the swollen erection that he'd ignored all this time, Greg could feel his pulse pounding in his cock.

Little kisses - little teasing kisses - blue-grey eyes, pupils big and soft as they gazed up the bed at him, and those tiny teasing kisses - soft, soft, _soft_ \- a gentle first lick - Greg curled his fists around the slats in the headboard. He panted, whimpering, harder than he could ever remember being. He'd never needed to be in Mycroft's mouth so much.

"Please, please - please, gorgeous, _please - ..."_

Mycroft began to lick him slowly just beneath the head, over and over, the same wet stroke of sensation. Greg sobbed. He couldn't watch - Myke's gentle pink tongue, lapping at him there, watching him enjoy it - he pushed his head back into the pillows and concentrated on his breathing, biting at his lip as Mycroft wrapped a hand around him.

"B-Baby, please - ..."

Feeling Mycroft smile against the tip of his cock nearly finished him off.

"S-Shit, Myke - _Myke_ \- d-don't tease me..."

Mycroft soothed him with another lick - long this time, root to tip, a wet and warm stripe that made Greg's cock twitch. His toes scrunched.

"F-Fuck...!" he gasped - and felt Mycroft stir between his thighs, shifting - rising up the bed - leaving his cock. "O-Oh - oh my _God_ \- ... oh God, _Myke_ \- Myke, you can't just - "

Mycroft cupped his face and kissed him, muffling his protests. Greg's heart thudded frantically against his ribs.

"Shhh..." Mycroft's hush was infinitely tender. "Shhh, darling... _breathe...."_

"C-Cruel," Greg whimpered, shaking.

"Breathe, Greg... let your heart settle..."

"Dr Garcia said you're not to edge me," Greg tried, panting.

His husband smiled against his mouth. "She said that, did she?" Even the playful coil of his voice made Greg want to come.

"Mnnh. M-Medical reasons."

Mycroft's eyes glinted. "Did Dr Garcia say I'm not to sit astride you," he murmured, "and ride you very gently until you come?"

 _"Oh_ \- oh, _fuck - ..."_

"Mm. I thought not." Mycroft reached for the bedside drawer.

As Myke finally settled into place, Greg forced his every scrap of focus into trying not to come. The hot squeeze of his husband's body took the air from his lungs. Every inch felt like it couldn't get better, get tighter or warmer around his cock - then it did. He gripped Mycroft's hands as they shook together, sinking, taking. Their eyes locked as one. As they finally slid together, they began to breathe - deep, aching breaths that reached places in Greg he'd forgotten even existed. It felt somehow like the first time - like they'd never done this before. _Oh, fuck... fuck me up, you're beautiful..._ he stroked restlessly at Mycroft's stomach, his sides, panting, squeezing him - watching his gorgeous pale chest rise and fall with his soft, shivering gasps.

Mycroft let out a thickened moan at the touches, swallowing - stirring a little. Greg's entire body burned at the sight.

Had this always felt so good? Mycroft looked like a wanton angel on top of him - tousled, hair fluffed and half-dry; lip bitten, his nipples tight and peaked; his cock swollen pink, shining at its tip. As he began to rock, enjoyment flooded his face. Greg swore softly; his heart strained. He pushed his hips up gently in time - wanting to give, wanting to watch more pleasure in his husband's face. The slick hug of heat around his cock felt amazing.

Mycroft gasped. He shivered, whispering,

"No, Greg - _rest_ \- let me..." He shifted, leaning back. His body formed a graceful bow as his hands braced on Greg's thighs behind him - cock, belly and chest gently arched for his husband's longing eyes - the pretty scatter of his freckles - the luxurious column of his neck. He worked his lower lip between his teeth as he eased into a rhythm, gazing down at Greg, his eyes dark and soft and wild. "Let me, darling..."

 _Oh... oh, fuck..._ just to lie here, and enjoy it... let Mycroft do the work...

Greg couldn't resist. He couldn't protest. He ran his hands up Mycroft's thighs, feeling them tremble for him - feeling them quiver on every steady push, pleasure lapping around his cock. He took hold of Mycroft's hips, and Mycroft let him guide that movement: that soft and lazy rocking, over and over and over, his husband's body warm and slick and gripping him tight, and it felt so good Greg couldn't think. He could only rest, and stretch, and quietly pant, shuddering and stirring as Mycroft built this for them. The gorgeous grey-blue eyes never left his own. They glittered as they watched him enjoy it, watched him try to hold onto his breathing, watched him falling deeper and deeper into moans. The rhythmic easing of his cock through heat and tightness left him gasping. He couldn't cope.

This felt like sex was meant to feel - easy, rippling and familiar.

It was fucking perfect.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft murmured, as enjoyment and pressure and need began to swirl at the base of Greg's cock.

Greg strained, stretching. He fought the urge to speed up - he didn't want to rush this towards its end. He wanted Mycroft just to rock him there slowly, just like this. He could feel it coming.

"M'f-fine..." _Fuck, fuck..._ "B-Baby - soon - ..."

"Mmhm? Soon?"

"Fuck - fuck, _soon_ \- ..."

Mycroft shivered, flushing. "Good," he breathed - and rolled his hips deeper, adding a restless grind to each downward stroke. Greg's heart ignited as he watched pleasure wrack Mycroft's face - enjoying this - angling Greg where he needed. _Fuck, baby... fuck yourself on me... find it, gorgeous... let me watch you, sweetheart... fuck, fuck..._

Two weeks. It was worth every moment of waiting.

Greg felt the tightness in his cock beginning to throb. He gritted his teeth, panting through them.

"M-Myke - ..." _Fuck, fuck, fuck...!_ "Myke - _now_ \- "

Mycroft didn't change - just watched him, panting, pupils blown. "Now..."

Greg's soul obeyed.

 _"Fuck...!"_ he gasped, as he arched - the pressure in his groin ripped itself apart, tearing through him and heaving out of his throat as a frantic cry. "Oh, _fuck_ \- fuck, _fuck...!"_

Mycroft kept rocking on him slowly - and it was the _slowness_ that kept Greg coming, kept him burning and gasping and whimpering each time he thought he was done. Something about the rhythm just wrenched at his soul - easy and steady and loving, over and over and _over_ \- a patient, rhythmic fucking, drawing him through the chaos of pleasure.

Before the throes had even finished, he reached a shaking hand for Mycroft's cock.

Mycroft stiffened, whimpering at the curl of his fingers.

"I love you," Greg gasped, broken open and panting. He wrapped his hand tight. He gripped at Mycroft's hips, encouraging him to rock. "Love you, gorgeous... take - t-take what you need - "

Mycroft gripped his hand, desperate - holding it in place - his teeth sunk into his lower lip as he began to thrust, pushing himself restlessly in and out of Greg's fist. Excitement tightened his face.

 _"Oh...!"_ he whimpered. "Yes - ..."

"Yes, sweetheart..." Greg's entire body ached as he watched it coming - waves of warmth still rushing through him, pounding with each aftershock. He needed this part. It was his favourite part. "Yes, gorgeous... _yes..."_

It took only moments - a couple more urgent thrusts, a couple more gasped-out moans, then wetness erupted between Greg's fingers, spurting across his chest. Mycroft called out with it, heaving, and the rush of relief that slugged through Greg's veins was like a second orgasm. He watched, blown away, as Mycroft whimpered and begged and came for him - his gorgeous bloody husband, fucking out his climax through Greg's fingers, Greg's cock still held inside him.

As he began to subside, Mycroft let out a broken gasp. His head tipped forwards to pant. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, and all across his shoulders and his chest - pretty pink blotches, blooming beneath his freckles. His stomach rose and fell at speed.

"A-Are you alright?" Mycroft breathed, barely able to speak.

Greg gasped, grinning. "I-I'm okay... I'm okay, love..." He stretched beneath Mycroft, blown away, every inch of his skin still singing. "Christ, that was... fucking _amazing..."_

Mycroft began to shake. _"Promise_ me you're alright," he whimpered.

Greg's heart glowed. "Christ. Come here."

A gentle clean with Greg's pyjama shirt, tossed from the bed - legs twining, close - a kiss full of promises and reassurance, fingers stroking in desperation through hair, long breaths drawn together. Greg's bones had melted beneath his muscles. He was just pleasure now - pleasure, and relief, and the feeling of his husband's arms around him.

"I'm alright, love," he murmured, over and over, as Mycroft trembled against him and stroked him. "M'just fine... safe and sound... see? No harm done..."

"H-Holy God... if I'd hurt you - ..."

"Hey... it's all okay, gorgeous... you didn't. You didn't hurt me at all." Greg caught both his hands, lifting them to his mouth - kissing them, smiling, gazing into Mycroft's fear-stricken eyes. "I'm a hardy soul, love... remember?"

Mycroft's expression softened; a shine touched his gaze. He glanced down between them, almost shy - their bare skin pressed together, soft with sweat - the scent of sex - that intimacy Greg had missed with all his heart.

"Was it... alright?" Mycroft murmured.

Greg grinned. "You serious, love?" He kissed Mycroft's forehead, clasping him. "I feel like a fucking emperor."

Mycroft snorted with laughter, burying his face into Greg's neck. Greg's grin widened as he stroked through his hair.

"I love you," he soothed, kissing the fluffed mess of dark red. He loved when Mycroft was scruffy. No-one else got to see this - no-one in the world. "You know that? I love you to pieces. More than anything. More than ever. I love you like I didn't know people could love each other. Everything we went through was worth it for this moment. Everything."

"Greg..." Mycroft cuddled closer with a shiver. The warmth of his bare body was magnificent. "Greg, I... I thought I'd be alone. All my life. And somehow _,_ I... have _you..."_

"Everyday, gorgeous." Greg nosed into his hair. "Every night, too."

Mycroft's fingers stirred across his back - found his shoulder blades, and held on. "If someone had told me six months ago, what my normal life would now be like... that this would be an _ordinary_ day..."

Greg smiled, his heart squeezing with the thought. "I wouldn't have believed them either, gorgeous."

They drew a long breath of peace together - the candlelight lapping across the bed, sleep now cosy at the edge of Greg's thoughts. Mycroft's back felt like silk beneath his fingertips. _My husband,_ Greg remembered - hugging him a little tighter. _My lover._ _My pair-bond._

"I wonder how things will be a year from now," Mycroft said, as he kissed Greg's half-moon scars.

Greg's eyes drifted shut in contentment.

"I hope they're just like this..." he said.

 


	7. Pup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and TJ's first meeting - set nine years before the events of Excultus.

* * *

 

  _T_ _hanks to mox-nox-in-rem and BourbonNeat for their Clan Tierney prompts - I hope this fits the bill. <3_

 

* * *

 

_"DI Oxley - got an assault in Hulme. Warde Street. Just come in. Teenager and his dad. Receiving?"_

DS Lestrade glanced through the car window, immediately alert. DI Oxley didn't look as if he'd heard. _Not a surprise._ Biting the side of his tongue, Greg hit the button for comms.

"Receiving, control. Did you say Hulme? Werewolf gang, is it?"

There came a rattle of computer keys over Comms.

 _"Nope,"_ said the caller, with a note of surprise. _"Ambulance is on its way for the dad, but the kid said human in his emergency call..."_

"Right." Greg cleared his throat. "Uhh - DI Oxley, sir? You receiving this?"

There came a scrape, a rattling sound, and the blustering tones of DI Oxley filled the car.

_"I've got ears, Lestrade! You need me holding your hand for a common assault? Get the hell round there."_

Greg eyed the front window of the fast food restaurant they were parked outside. Oxley was visible in a booth inside, lounging back in the red leather seat with some of the other late night patrol officers - still working his way through the double portion of onion rings. _Lazy old bastard._ Greg had already sworn to himself that if he ever made DI, he wouldn't end up like Oxley.

"Fair enough..." Greg started the car, hit the siren and reached for the gearstick. "M'on it, control. There in five minutes."

 

* * *

 

He found them lying in the road outside a corner shop - a kid of about eighteen, crying, kneeling over a man with extensive facial injuries. Plenty of people had now gathered for a goggle. None of them had taken it upon themselves to help or do anything, or even to comfort the kid.

Greg arrived with a blazing blue light, staggered from the car and ran straight over.

"Hey, fella... you make a 999 call? Is this your dad?"

The kid could barely speak for tears. There was blood all over his hands; he couldn't wipe his face clean.

"Please - ..." His chest heaved as he wept. "Please - _p-please_ _help_ \- "

"S'alright, mate..." Greg knelt, laying a hand on the back of his hoodie. "Ambulance is on its way right now. Gonna get you sorted. What's your name?"

"T-Tim - ..." The boy convulsed. "Tim T-Tierney - ... h-he's my dad - "

_Tierney._

Werewolves - one of the bigger families. There was at least one Tierney brother or cousin in the cells every weekend. _This kid's a Tierney?_ Greg couldn't believe it. He was tiny. Zip-up hoodie, skinny jeans, sneakers decorated with rainbow pen. It didn't make sense. There was a bag of shopping thrown across the ground around him, milk and eggs and caramel chocolate.

Greg looked down at the man lying between them.

Knitted mauve jumper and a shirt collar - glasses, now smashed - little, like his crying son. Gentle as a May dawn.

Human. Had to be.

Greg realised at once.

 _Christ._ They were Ancroft Street Tierneys. Diana had a human. She also had five sons, four of whom Greg knew by sight - built like buses, quick to anger, and of the opinion that no night on the town was complete without a fight.

This must be Diana's fifth boy.

Greg turned to the watching crowd. He pointed to people as he called on them - it was the only way to turn spectators into helpers.

"Can you bring a damp towel, please? Miss, can you get a blanket or a heavy coat? And sir - cushions, please - for his head. Thanks."

Jogged from their staring, they hurried to comply.

"What happened, Tim?" Greg asked, as the boy rubbed his father's arm and cried.

"Just - c-came out of n-nowhere - ..." He gasped around the words, whimpering them. "F-Four of them. S-Said something about Jack. My b-brother. Dad - Dad tried to - ..."

He wretched with fresh tears, twisting in on himself.

Greg dragged an arm around his shoulders. "S'okay..." he said. "S'alright, mate... help's coming. We've got you both."

"M-My mum - ... _sh-shit_ \- M-Mum's gonna _k-kill me - "_

Greg's heart thudded against his ribs. "Why d'you say that?"

"I - I should've - should've _transformed,_ I just - ... f-fuck, I was _scared,_ and just _panicking,_ and b-by the time they - "

 _Jesus._ Greg had seen werewolves transform over an accidental bump on the street, or a sideways glance too many. "Are you - _due_ to - ...?"

The boy sobbed into his hands, shaking himself apart.

" - sh-should've - I _should've_ \- ..."

The bystanders were returning. Greg took the cushion from his first helper, got it under Mr Tierney's head, then thanked another woman for the towel and bowl of warm water she'd brought.

"Hey," he said, gently, catching the boy's hands. "C'mere... let's get you cleaned up. Ambulance won't be far now."

 

* * *

 

Tim was eighteen.

At that age, Greg could have left him to the paramedics - gone round to tell the family, and returned in the morning for statements - but he couldn't abandon the kid. He couldn't just clap him on the back, wish him luck, and start door-knocking for witnesses.

He went in the ambulance with Tim. The boy barely took his eyes from his father's face - even as his dad tried to reassure him, bloody and weakened and gentle, Tim cried so hard he couldn't speak. Greg had never seen someone so consumed by guilt and distress. His heart broke for the kid.

Tim's father couldn't say much - shocked, in pain - but he told Greg that his name was James - and yes, he said; he was Diana Tierney's James. The other boys had been tormenting Tim. _(Boys,_ Greg thought - all four of them in their twenties, as built as brick walls, and yet in their father's eyes, _boys.)_ He'd taken Tim for a walk to the corner shop - an excuse to find his youngest a little peace and quiet, get him some chocolate, reassure him.

It had all gone rather wrong since then.

They got to A&E to discover a massive queue. It was Saturday night in Manchester, and the night was still young. The flashing blue light edged Mr Tierney up the queue, and Greg pulled a discreet favour from the nurses. They found Mr Tierney and his son a quiet room. Greg sat with them to wait.

Tim was still crying.

He was at college, he managed to tell Greg. Studying IT. He liked building things - electronics. It was stupid, he said, but he liked it. Brothers called him a dork. He set their phones to Japanese when they annoyed him, and deleted the English modules.

At last, after nearly two hours, a doctor was free.

They moved Mr Tierney again - patched him up, decided that he'd better stay the night, and found him a bed - got Tim a hot drink. He wasn't crying so much anymore, just pale and guilty, nervously promising his dad he wasn't hungry.

By the time Greg was sure they'd be alright, it was nearly four AM.

He had five missed calls from DI Oxley. He closed the window on his wrist-set without answering, and let Mr Tierney weakly shake his hand.

"Thank you, sergeant... you were kind to stay... has - anyone has contacted Diana?"

Greg had thought it best to leave that part until her husband was out of A&E, safe on a ward and settled. An enraged Diana Tierney in the middle of Saturday night A&E was the last thing they needed - especially if, like her son, she was near transformation. Tomorrow's papers would have been proclaiming a death toll.

"The nurses gave your wife a ring for me," he said, and noted Tim's shoulders slump out of the corner of his eye. "She'll be here soon."

Tim started to shake.

His father put an arm around him, and coaxed a pocket handkerchief back into his hand.

"It's alright, Tim... your mother will understand..."

Greg took one last look at the boy and his father, then left them to their privacy. He hoped Diana didn't give the staff any trouble. He hoped she went easy on the kid - didn't punish him for what he hadn't done.

Oxley was mad. The commander had bollocked him - letting a new sergeant deal with a serious assault alone. Greg (according to various blustering voicemails) was to get his arse back to the station at once, and explain to the commander in no uncertain terms that Oxley had offered to come, and that Greg was now deeply sorry for his wayward irresponsibility.

Greg braced himself for the second miserable half of the night, and hailed a taxi from the main road.

 

* * *

 

Greg got to the hospital next morning at eleven. Mr Tierney was still very sore, the nurses said, and shocked - but he'd slept well. His wife was in there with him now.

Holding a card and daffodils, Greg let himself into the room with trepidation.

He'd never met Diana Tierney, but he'd seen enough of her sons to recognise every one of them in her. She was sitting in the chair by her husband's bed - looking down at him, watching over him, saying no words. She was taller than all five of their sons, broad-shouldered and heavy-set, with the guarded manner and solemnity that marked out an alpha lycan.

As Greg entered the room, she raised her head to the door. Her tawny eyes fixed into place upon Greg, unimpressed by the interruption. It was an untempered glare.

Mr Tierney looked up; gentle warmth softened his features.

"Sergeant Lestrade..." he said, pleased. "Come in."

Greg stepped with care into the room. Diana's eyes didn't shift from him an inch; the hardness in her expression did not lighten.

"This the one?" she murmured to her husband, gruff. Her voice came from the lowest reaches of her throat - a growl, even untransformed.

Her husband's hand gently squeezed her forearm.

"This is Sergeant Lestrade," he said, quietly. "Sergeant - this is my wife, Diana."

Greg knew better than to come close or sit down. He knew better than to stare her out, too. You learned quickly with werewolves, or you never learned at all.

"How are you feeling, Mr Tierney?" he asked, laying the card and the daffodils on a nearby table.

Mr Tierney smiled. "A little tired, but... in good spirits. Tim's gone to find himself some lunch. He's settling more, after last night... shock, more than anything..."

Diana Tierney shifted in her chair.

Greg stayed completely still as she stood up. She towered over him, head and shoulders; the muscles in her neck alone could probably have broken his arm. He lowered his head, looking upwards at her with care as she stood before him - surveying him - taking him in.

It was a few moments before she spoke.

"You stayed with James," she murmured. "Stayed with Tim."

It was a question.

"Just glad they're feeling better," Greg said. He kept his voice level, his eyes down. "Doing my job."

She huffed; Greg felt her breath puff across his face.

"More than most police do," she remarked. He thought irresistibly of Oxley, stuffing onion rings. Diana raised her chin. "Good of you."

 _Christ._ Greg smiled, taking care to show no teeth. He dipped his head. "Not a problem," he said. "If you're feeling up to it, Mr Tierney, I can take a statement from you... see if we can get our hands on who did this."

Diana snorted once more. Her upper lip curled back as she spoke.

"Cargills," she said. The sound rippled through Greg, raising every hair on the back of his neck. "Elverdon Close. Fucking Jack - our eldest... he's after the Cargill girl. Freya. I warned him..."

She ran her tongue slowly across her teeth.

"Spoken to Jack," she rumbled. "Spoken to the Cargills - Freya's parents. Told them to get a handle on her brothers... get them round to tell James they're fucking sorry. Got it all sorted now."

Greg hesitated.

"If you - want to press charges..." he said. "I mean - you'd have grounds to - "

Diana's eyes set and locked. _"I said it's sorted."_

Greg's veins shrank into themselves. "S-Sure. No worries."

Diana's husband spoke gently from the bed. "My wife and I have dealt with the parents of the young men involved, sergeant... we don't wish to pursue this unpleasantness any further."

Greg knew better than to argue.

"No worries," he said. "I'm glad you and Tim are alright, anyway."

"Kind of you, sergeant. Thank you." As his wife resumed her seat by his bed, taking up her vigil once more, Mr Tierney gave Greg a patient, hazel-eyed smile. "Do pass our gratitude onto your superiors... you deserve to be rewarded."

 _Oxley?_ Greg almost wanted to laugh. _"Sir, some people said I'm good at my job."  "Shut up, Lestrade, and go get me a coffee."_

He said goodbye to them both, and let himself out of the room.

Halfway down the corridor, a voice called him back.

"Erm - S-Sergeant?"

Greg turned around.

It was Tim - clean clothes, and a little calmer - even the smallest hint of a smile. He'd been heading back towards his dad's room, holding a lunch bag and a can of pop.

Greg found himself smiling too. "Hey, fella... how're you feeling?"

"F-Fine. Better." Tim flushed slightly, coming to a stop beside Greg. "Erm - th-thanks. For - what you did... I wasn't much use, and... well, you were nice. Thanks."

Greg pushed his hands into his pockets. "Don't worry about it," he said. "It's just my job... and your dad's looking brighter, at least."

Tim hesitated, fiddling with his sleeve. "Can I - tip you off about something?"

"Sure."

"My mum's - erm, sorted all this. With the Cargills. But my brothers are... pricks, basically. She'll go mental if they try anything, but it doesn't usually stop them - I think they're going to try some weird revenge mission. For my dad's 'honour'." Tim rolled his eyes. "S-So... I mean, you might want to... just keep an eye out."

Greg smiled, grateful. "Thanks... I will. Your Jack's after a Cargill girl, is he?"

"Freya," Tim mumbled. "Her - dad says no. Says Jack's not good enough."

"Yeah? What's Freya think?"

Tim shrugged, crumpling his lunch bag. _"I_ think they need hobbies? Can't wait until I can go off to uni..."

Greg's heart twinged a little. "Yeah?" he said, keeping the brief flash of sadness from his face. _Days long gone,_ he thought. "You going in September?"

"Y-Yeah. London."

"Really?" Greg smiled. "M'from London. Lambeth, originally."

Tim's eyes brightened. "Is it good there?"

Greg didn't let his smile slip. "S'not for everyone, but... some people love it there. They arrive and never leave. Gets into their blood."

Tim looked down at his sneakers. "Yeah? Sounds good to me..."

"Was your mum alright? About - ?"

"Oh... erm, yeah. She's - k-kinda used to me by now... probably not surprised..." Tim flushed with distress. "I g-get stuck. I don't like it, so I sort of - clam up a bit - erm... my brothers have told me I'm a pathetic little tosser, though? So that's good to know."

Greg snorted. "Frankly? Not sure your brothers can talk."

Delight lit Tim's eyes.

"M-My dad said - said he doesn't mind," he mumbled. "The Cargills would have just battered me, too. O-Or I'd have gotten in trouble. Could have killed them, if I'd - ... _then_ we'd have a problem..."

Greg nudged his arm, gently.

"Listen to your dad," he said. "Smart guy. You did right calling the police."

"S-Sure." Tim blushed again, glancing at his lunch bag. "Thanks. And - thanks again."

"Go get your lunch," Greg said, warmly. "Earned it by now. Good luck at uni. And enjoy London. Don't let it swallow you up."

"Th-thanks. I won't."

Greg offered a hand. Tim fumbled with his lunch bag, balanced the pop in the crook of his arm, and they shook.

"See you around," Greg said, and gave him a final smile.

He was most of the way down the corridor before he heard the door handle creak. Tim had been watching him go.

In the car, he found three messages from Oxley: one, asking where the hell Greg thought he was; two, asking what the hell he thought he was doing; and three, telling him he'd better come back with coffee.

 


	8. Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kit gives self-defence training to Lexi.

* * *

 

  _Written for green-violin-bow, with thanks for an awesome prompt. <3 I tweaked it a little, Greenie. Hope it's still good._

 

* * *

 

"Right, pint-size... rule one. Go for the groin."

Lexi's face opens with delight.

She's thirteen - and a week ago, an older boy followed her home from school. She hid in a shop until he was gone. She cried for the first night, then went numb and stopped speaking.

She only opened up to Olivia yesterday evening.

Hates herself for hiding. She wishes she'd shouted at the little arsehole, asked him what he was doing - why he'd tailed her for several streets, even when she'd tried to shake him off. Why he did that. Why he thought he could do that.

In the end, the boy had slunk away - bored.

Lexi doesn't know why'd she let him.

_"It's 'cause she didn't have another option,"_ Kit said. They'd talked about it for nearly two hours last night. Olivia couldn't sleep. _"Lex was smart. She got home safe. She outfoxed the tosser."_

She could still see Olivia's eyes shuttering with distress. _"I can't bear to see her feeling like this. She think she's weak."_

Kit couldn't bear it, either.

"Why the groin?" Lexi asks, biting her lip. She's standing in the training room of Armed Response, in the smallest size of protective gear that Kit could find.

"Because men are pathetic," Kit says, flatly.

Lexi's face glows.

"They're weaker than you," Kit continues. "All of them. All the fragile bits of them are on the outside, and they hate it. You know how many martial arts permit kicks to the groin? None. Because men can't cope with the big secret. When they fight for fun, they pretend they don't have groins - so they don't have to acknowledge that every single woman on this planet could fucking cripple them without blinking."

Seeing Lexi's mouth open, Kit realises.

_"Flipping_ cripple them," she says. "Don't tell Olivia. Right. We'll do the groin first - then I'll show you how to break someone's nose. This stuff is only to be used when you're in danger. Not just when someone pisses you off. Okay?"

"How do I - _know_ when I'm in - ...?"

Kit takes a second to lament the state of the planet, that young women are still taught to suppress their instincts so tightly they don't know what danger feels like.

"You say, loudly, _'leave me alone right now or I will break your fucking nose'._ If he keeps coming, you're in danger. Break his fucking nose."

"What if he wasn't _planning_ on hurting me," Lexi asks, nervous, "but then I yell at him, and he gets angry? And he decides to hurt me after all?"

"Anyone who hurts someone to punish her for making him angry _deserves_ to have his groin kicked to dust." Kit hesitates for a second, wondering if it's too much. Using the word. _Only thirteen._ Then she realises keeping Lexi safe from the word won't keep her safe from the world. "You can't turn a decent man into a rapist by screaming at him. But you might persuade a rapist you're not worth the effort."

Lexi flushes, distressed. She holds onto something for a second. "Has - anyone ever tried to - ...? F-Follow you, I mean."

"Yeah, sweetheart." Kit holds her eyes, gently. "And worse. We've all got stories."

"Even you?" Lexi whispers.

Kit suspects she's just watched a heart break.

"Having stories doesn't matter," she says. She's going to hug Lexi until her bones creak when they're done here. "So long as the stories end like this: _'and then I got away'."_

Lexi tries to smile. It doesn't reach her eyes. _"'... by hiding in a shop',"_ she mumbles, her eyes downcast.

"You did the right thing. You know that?" Kit takes her by the shoulders, gets hold of her eyes and looks into them, hard. "You aced it, pint-size. Hide in shops. Tell the staff some little twat is trying to follow you. They'll ring Livs, or me, or one of your uncles. And if it's me they ring, I'll bring the dogs and the guns. All I'm doing is giving you Plan B for when the shop's not there."

"Okay..." Lexi hesitates, unsure. She'll believe Kit for now - that's enough. She tugs uneasily at the hem of her purple sports vest. "I - I think I'm ready."

Kit's stomach tightens.

The truth is she'll never be ready. She's thirteen. By the time she's twenty-three, men will have shocked her to the soul with what they'll try - things they don't even comprehend are out of order - behaviour that they think is fine and dandy, so long as it leads to them getting what they want.

Nobody shows any sign of teaching these men to be decent fucking people.

So Kit will continue teaching young ladies how to pound their precious bollocks into paste.

"Okay, pint-size... let's crack on. You hang here a minute. I'll go see if your Uncle Greg's got himself padded up yet."

 


	9. Awaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loving sex and fluff between the Holmes-Lestrades - a brief glimpse of the future.

* * *

  

_Written with much love for agent-elaine, who requested tenderness and sex from ten years after Excultus._

 

* * *

 

"Mmh..."

Greg's sated murmur is heaven - the soft, laboured breaths he draws against Mycroft's neck - his warm and familiar weight between Mycroft's thighs.

"Are you okay?" His voice comes as a rumble, smoky with his afterglow. "M'I too heavy?"

A shiver flickers across the back of Mycroft's neck. These moments are his favourite of all - ten years, and making love still soaks him in a bliss he can barely believe. He tightens his grip on his husband's back - warm, slick with sweat beneath his fingertips - and he kisses the hidden hollow behind Greg's ear.

"Not at all..." he murmurs. Climax still flutters through his nerves - little pulses - gentle flushes. In a decade of doing this, Greg has lost none of his skillful attention to detail. "Don't - ... not yet."

He feels his husband smile against his neck. "Nice, feeling me like this?"

Mycroft breathes deeply, closing his eyes. Having his husband inside him is the most comforting sensation on this earth. Nothing will ever compare. "Mmhm."

Greg nuzzles into his throat.

"Sorry I savaged you, gorgeous... couldn't help it..." He strokes his mouth longingly over the soft pink marks he's just made. "That new suit. Fuck me up... it makes your legs go on forever..."

Mycroft bites into his lip, feeling his chest flood with joy on every heartbeat.

Life is wonderful.

Something about the spring has rather awakened Greg. A grey and grizzly winter has opened into longer days, lingering looks and nights full of longing... not that these recent attacks have been restricted to the night-time. Since February ended, Greg has seemed to want him almost every hour of the day.

It is currently quarter past two in the afternoon. They were meant to be somewhere by now.

Instead, they're in bed - and the clock on the dresser doesn't matter.

Mycroft can barely think. The whole world has become this moment, and his husband's weight on top of him, and the feeling of Greg's breath against his jaw. He rests his head back and breathes it, drifting on rolling clouds of enjoyment as his husband nuzzles for to his lips and kisses them - a long, loving kiss. Every kiss feels like a first kiss this spring. Every dark-eyed glance has set Mycroft's pulse skipping. He feels young and fond and thankful, and he can't bring himself to care about things like 'late'.

Their decade together hasn't always been easy - but it's always been good. At the heart of everyday, there's been this: this longing that has never ebbed; this need to be close, and closer still; the fascination that still draws Greg's hands beneath his shirt at half one in the afternoon, and the utter trust and love that means those hands are always welcome.

Overwhelmed, Mycroft parts his lip for his husband's gentle tongue.

With Greg still inside him, and the world outside a distant memory, they kiss.

When they finally reach the car, nearly an hour behind schedule, Greg gets the door for Mycroft. He's protective today - tender, after making love - his eyes are soft, and every glance is a promise. Mycroft feels his every thought being read as if it's written out upon his skin. He's so aware of Greg today - every smile, every movement. It feels like no-one else really exists.

As they drive, they talk about spring and the summer to come. New Zealand again - Greg's birthday in July. Each time they reach traffic lights, Greg reaches over to stroke Mycroft's knee. He can't seem to keep himself away.

It's rather hard to concentrate all afternoon.

A single flash of Greg's eyes, and it feels like they're right back in bed - making love in the afternoon, whispering pleasure and need to each other, sharing their soft sounds. Greg knows it, and he looks often. Mycroft counts the minutes until they can respectably leave.

As soon as they get home, Mycroft stands by the bedroom mirror to undo his tie - and gentle arms encircle his waist from behind.

"You looked so gorgeous today..."

Mycroft can't fight a grin. He bites his lip and closes his eyes, head resting back against Greg's shoulder. His waistcoat buttons put up little resistance to the gentle advance of his husband's hands.

"Barely heard a word anyone was saying to me..." Greg murmurs, sighing. "Just kept thinking about earlier... thinking about you..."

"Darling..." Mycroft's head spins as he shivers. Is an ordinary day really meant to feel like this? "Perhaps food, before we exhaust each other again...?"

Greg peels back his waistcoat, biting softly at his shirt collar.

"Food later," he breathes. "Everything later... you and me, first..."

 


	10. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five ficlets themed around Olivia, the girls and TJ.

* * *

  

_For TheoryInProgress, who requested new fish._

 

* * *

 

"Jesus Christ! What is _that?"_

"He's for the office," Greg grins, standing proudly beside the tank. "D'you like him?"

TJ bends down to squint between the rocks, the plants and the caves; a big-eyed face gazes back at him. The fish has a little mouth and a permanent smile, and its fins flutter slightly in the breeze from the pump as it floats there before him. It seems perfectly cheerful.

"What is it?" TJ asks, unconvinced of their new officemate.

"He's a porcupinefish," says Greg.

"Sorry - _he?"_

"Yeah, he's a male. Myke set up his tank for me. Apparently he's fine in there on his own... the breeder tried him with other fish, but he doesn't do well with them."

TJ shoots him a quizzical look.

_"'Doesn't do well with them'?"_ he says. "What, they call him names? Steal his lunch money?"

"He gets stressed out."

"How can you tell if a _fish_ is _stressed?"_ TJ demands.

To demonstrate, Greg knocks gently on the glass.

The porcupinefish blows up like a spiny balloon. He floats away across the tank, staring wide-eyed at the rocks and plants that drift by.

"... I have now _completely_ changed my mind on the office fish," TJ says, delighted. "I _love_ it. What do we feed it? And what're we calling it?"

"He's got a box of flakes already - and a name."

"Really?" TJ wiggles a finger against the glass, amused as the fish stares in horror at him, upside-down. "What's he called?"

He glances up to find Greg grinning. "Called him Timmy."

"... 'cause of the..."

"'Cause of the."

"... you're not funny, Lestrade."

"'You're not funny _Holmes-Lestrade',_ thank you. And it was Myke's idea."

"Tell him he's not funny either."

"I will. D'you want Timmy next to your desk, or mine?"

 

* * *

 

_For Anonymous, who requested: 'mycoff'._

 

* * *

 

Lottie’s four now – bright as a sparrow, chatty and chirpy and delighted by everything. Of the three girls, she’s the one most used to a shifting kaleidoscope of family. She’s never even used the word ‘Daddy’. She adapts like a dream, and even Greg finds her easy to be with.

They’re out for dinner for Olivia’s birthday – a table for seven in Soho – and Mycroft, not needing food, is happily keeping an eye on the girls.

Halfway through her spaghetti, Lottie’s fork tangles. The spaghetti keeps on coming as she pulls it to head-height, and her tiny face tightens in dismay.

“Uncle Mycoff – ?”

Conversation skips – faces around the table open. Greg’s heart tightens as they all realise at once what a little girl has just voiced, and he sees it in all of them – _oh God… we are, aren’t we?_

Mycroft, without a pause, rises from his chair.

He untangles Lottie’s dinner for her gently – smiling, agreeing with her in soft and wise tones that pasketty is difficult.

As Greg steadies himself with a mouthful of wine, he glances along the table at Olivia.

She’s watching the two of them, close to tears

Her eyes shine in the candlelight.

 

* * *

 

_For theredheadinquestion, who requested: 'rumpus'._

 

* * *

 

“And what is all this rumpus?” Mycroft demands of the room, and receives three guilty expressions in response. The girls squirm. The story is reluctantly related: a minor dispute over a toy. “I think Olivia would be terribly disappointed to hear you’ve all been squabbling while she’s at the cinema with TJ… shall we all have some cocoa, mm? And put this all behind us.”

It’s only once the girls are in bed that Greg explains his trembling, lip-bitten silence during the scene.

_“Rumpus?”_ he says, grinning, leaning against Mycroft’s side on the couch with his second mug of cocoa. “That’s rude, isn’t it?”

“Not in the least,” says Mycroft, shooting him a fond frown. “It means a commotion. An uproar.”

“… right. What was I thinking of?”

“I fear you might have been thinking of ‘rumpy-pumpy’, darling.”

“Let’s be honest,” says Greg, sipping his cocoa. “I usually am.”

 

* * *

 

_For Anonymous, who requested: 'moon'._

 

* * *

  

Greg dropped round just before eight.

"Fuzzball, I need this phone cracked ASAP. The cousin's vanished as well now, and I'm pretty sure they've scarpered with the money and the... Christ - are you two alright?"

They looked up at him glumly from the sofa, both of them buried beneath a duvet with bedsocks just visible. The coffee table was scattered with chocolate wrappers, an empty caramel ice cream tub, DVD boxes and a half finished bottle of wine. Livs had her hair wrapped and a face mask on. TJ had opted for just the face mask - but he'd now cried most of his off.

As he picked up the strains of Les Miserables from the TV, Greg made a deduction.

"Ah," he said. _"That_ time, is it?"

As one they nodded.

"D'you need anything?"

They shook their heads.

"... just me to bugger off?"

They nodded, slowly.

Greg backed from the room, and shut the door.

"What shall we watch next?" Olivia asked, curling into his side.

TJ drew a heavy sigh.

"Something with Alan Rickman," he mumbled, and reached for the chocolate tin.  

 

* * *

 

_For ngaijuuyan, who requested TJ making a special plea. <3 _

 

* * *

 

“Please.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please, Dr H-L. Pretty please.”

“Under no circumstances.”

“Oh! Why can’t I?”

“Because,” Mycroft says, with his best attempt at severity, “they’ve already _had_ brine shrimp this week. They’re not to have too much - lest they start preferring it to their fish flakes.”

TJ brightens at once. “Can I give them some fish flakes?”

“No.”

“God! Why?”

“Because,” Mycroft says, with further severity, _“last time_ I let you give them fish flakes, you sneezed and emptied half the tub into the tank. I had to change the water.”

“I didn’t think they’d be so dusty!”

“Why did you even decide to _smell_ them, for heaven’s sake?”

“I needed to know what they smell like!” TJ protests, as if this should be obvious to anyone. “Oh please, Dr H-L… _please._ Just a pinch. I _promise.”_

Mycroft bites his tongue - then reaches, smiling, for the pot. “Scamp," he says. _"Half_ a pinch.”

 


	11. Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four ficlets themed around Kit Medlock.

* * *

 

_For BourbonNeat, who requested Kit's reaction to her promotion._

 

* * *

 

 _Esse quam videri._ It's been worked into the surprisingly delicate lacework that decorates her sternum - Gothic script, crisp and dark.

Armed Response Commander Medlock has no qualms about displaying her new tattoo for the curious. Mycroft has now seen the underside of her breasts four times – and that's just since they've been sitting here in the canteen.

The ease that Medlock feels with her body is clearly hard-worn. It seems an excellent way to deal with scars, he thinks: wear them in all their glory.

And the sentiment, though simple, rather moves him.

_'To be, rather than to seem.'_

 

* * *

 

_For Bourbon, with another angle of Kit's promotion._

 

* * *

 

It shouldn't have been this way.

Kit runs her fingers in silence over the bank of computers. How many hours of her life had she watched him standing here? Putting them all through their paces… grinning as he took their back-chat. Always first to buy a round. Saturday mornings, washing his bloody car.

She loads the simulation programme, numb. The Range blazes into life beyond the glass – the new recruits are armed and ready below, and this is the very first day.

And it shouldn't have been like this – but it is.

They need her.

So she'll do her best.

 

* * *

 

_For Greenie, who requested Kit and Olivia._

 

* * *

 

Just a drink. Not a big deal.

Just a catch-up, to see how things are.

Proper shower after work. Proper shirt - thinks about it for some time, and eventually opts for white with the sleeves rolled-up. Easy black blazer: touch of formal. Ruining it at once with ripped black jeans and army boots. Simple titanium in the eyebrow piercing, and nothing at all around the neck. _Let the ink talk._ Flash of EDT; cypress and cedarwood. Briefly considers trying to tame the hair, then remembers that life is too short for all that crap.

Wallet. Wrist-set.

Onto the bike.

A pub near Scotland Yard.

Waiting outside - white dress with a lily print, beaded bag and a powder-blue jacket. Sandals with a wedge. _Height difference,_ Kit thinks, then: _stop it, Kit._ Deep pink lipstick. Long earrings that catch in the evening sunlight.

A grin, as Kit hauls off the helmet.

 

* * *

 

_For Minxy, who requested Kit angst._

 

* * *

 

_[16:17] hey. u free 4 a bit tonite? KM_

_[16:34] Not got any plans. why? G_

 

Kit's kicking crash-mats into place when Greg arrives. She doesn't chat much - stiff-shouldered and pale - asks about his day, but seems a hundred miles away when he answers. Clearly she's not asked him here to talk.

So they cut to the chase.

Twenty minutes pass - and as she pins Greg to the mat for the third time, gritting her teeth and twisting his arm behind his back, he takes the chance to ask.

"Why tonight?" he gasps against the mat, arching in her hold.

Kit's face and grip both tighten. She fights it for a second, silent - then bites out:

_"‘It's complicated'."_

Greg feared it might be. His chest aches as he gazes up at her. "M'sorry."

"You're not," she snarls. Her eyes burn. "He's _your_ fucking pal. You're thrilled."

"You know she's told him it's complicated as well, don't you? Wants to focus on her academy training. It's not just you."

Kit's face contorts.

"I wouldn't've got in the way," she rages. "She _knows_ I wouldn't. It's _him_ \- him and his fucking - " Her jaw sets. "Whatever."

She lets go of Greg, angrily, and hauls herself up from the crash-mat.

"Best out of five," she snaps, as he wearily massages his shoulder. "C'mon. Get up. Try properly this time. Stop making it easy."

 

*

 

_[ATTACHED: IMG-0422.jpg]  
Sent 07:11 _

_Medlock.  
Sent 07:12 _

_You and I need to have a conversation.  
Sent 07:12 _

 

_NEW MESSAGE FROM KIT MEDLOCK  
jfc what is that??? _

 

 _That is a BRUISE. Which my husband returned home with last night._  
_"Going to the gym with Kit"? For a beating, was it?_  
_Sent 07:17_

 

_NEW MESSAGE FROM KIT MEDLOCK  
no no wait what body part is that??? _

 

_That's hardly relevant. I don't expect him to receive this sort of brutal treatment again. Are we quite clear?  
Sent 07:20 _

 

_NEW MESSAGE FROM KIT MEDLOCK  
is that gregs arse??? _

_NEW MESSAGE FROM KIT MEDLOCK  
jfc it is!!! _

 

_It doesn't matter. What matters is that you kindly stop pulverising him in the name of "exercise". He can barely sit down this morning.  
Sent 07:24 _

 

_NEW MESSAGE FROM KIT MEDLOCK  
lmao stop!!! your killing me. he cant sit down??? _

_NEW MESSAGE FROM KIT MEDLOCK  
tell greg to suck it up lol _

 

Mycroft snorts, typing his reply with unconcealed amusement. Greg leans across the pillows to him.

"Cheered her up?"

"Inordinately," says Mycroft.

"Good." Greg kisses his jaw, cuddling closer. His movements are slow where he's sore. "She'll be fine. Few weeks. They both will."

Mycroft sighs and wraps an arm around him. "I certainly hope so."

 


	12. Restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very NSFW; 4300 words. Prompt: Mycroft has been away for a couple of weeks. When he gets home, Greg decides to tease his pair-bond a little. Sex, feeding and restraints.

* * *

 

_Written, with all my love, for the magnificent Miss Janina Woods._

 

* * *

 

Rope - for safety.

It's been sixteen days. There was a time when even a gap of six months wouldn't have prompted this precaution - not so much as a thought of it - but that was the time before Greg. As far as Mycroft is concerned, there isn't a safeguard too extreme.

His body has grown used to weekly; he's felt this extra week of deprivation to the point of nausea and pain. He's been going through litres each day of the cold, chemically-preserved substance that was his only nutrition for nine years, and with every litre he's wondered if it always tasted so utterly foul - if it always made him feel this vicious and intemperate and ill. He's missed his partner with every fragment of his heart and his soul; his body has missed the supreme state of health to which it has grown accustomed.

He's now home. He knows he won't hurt his husband; he knows he's not capable.

But all the same.

As Greg kneels astride him naked, securing his wrists behind his back with the soft and slender white rope, looping it through the metal brackets of the headboard, Mycroft realises this precaution is as much about relaxing him as it is neutralising any threat.

Greg certainly seems relaxed - the small smile, the soft gaze, the slow and steady dubbing of his heart.

"Comfy?" he murmurs to Mycroft.

Mycroft shifts, slowly breathing in. He holds his husband's gaze. "Mm."

"Not too tight?"

He tests the rope. It's of a kind normally used for mooring yachts. He couldn't cope with the thought of metal - neither of them could. It's why their bedroom is also now softly lit, why quiet music plays from the apartment's speakers, and why Greg has lavender-scented massage oil warming over a candle. _Making love,_ everything says. _Safe. The two of us, alone._

"Not tight," Mycroft murmurs. He gives an experimental pull, letting the muscles in his arms bulk. If he absolutely had to, he could break the ties. In Greg's care, his strength has reached a peak he didn't know was possible, and sixteen days haven't taken that away from him. Though tired, pale and sorely in need, he's not fallen back into the shadow of a creature he was - and either the rope or the slats in the bed would give, if he needed them to.

But their hold is firm, and reassuring and comfortable - and as he exhales, Mycroft feels a quiet knot of fear unravel inside his chest.

Greg's eyes sparkle, watching.

"Missed you," he whispers, and kisses him. The stroke of their mouths is easy and soft; Mycroft's fingers curl with enjoyment behind his back. As Greg kisses him, he mumbles, "Should have fed you before you left with Kit..."

Mycroft manages a tired smile against his mouth. "I'm quite alright, Greg."

"Mhm. Don't like seeing you go without." Greg's fingers slide gently across his chest, stroking out to his shoulders. Mycroft's eyes close. "I - upped my supplements for a few days. You can take your time. Have a proper drink."

Mycroft stiffens; twin flares of longing and alarm go up inside his chest. "That is not wise. Not after sixteen days - my - self-control isn't - "

"It's okay, sweetheart. I know what too much feels like... and you're tied. Shush, now... relax for me..."

Greg cups his face. He turns Mycroft's jaw up, seal their lips and kisses him slowly. Mycroft's stomach tightens at the gentle play of Greg's tongue with his own; he feels his heart respond with urgency to his husband's slightly elevated pulse. Greg is aroused. This is the first slow kiss of sex, and it's impossible for Mycroft to suppress the heat that stirs through his blood. He's missed Greg in a hundred different ways. Though this is only one of them, it's been keenly felt.

"Let me do something for you?" Greg murmurs between strokes of their mouths, as Mycroft's breath begins to thicken. A familiar tingle is growing at the base of his teeth.

"What?" he says, his voice low and faint.

Greg's nose rubs the side of his own. He reaches behind the pillow that's propped against Mycroft's back, searching with care.

When he retrieves something black, comprising velvet and a short length of elastic, Mycroft arches an eyebrow.

"No?" Greg hums. He toys with the elastic a little.

Mycroft gives him a look of bemused concern. "'In for a penny', is it?"

Greg smiles, lowering his eyes. "I thought... seeing as you're already restrained..." There's a little extra colour to his face; Mycroft can't help but find it rather fetching. He realises Greg has planned this, hoped for it. It looks as if he's been doing so for a while.

"Might heighten your other senses," Greg adds, biting the corner of his lip. "Taste, for instance."

Mycroft processes this. He's certain that after sixteen days, taste won't require any heightening - but he supposes that they're safe. The apartment is secure, and there's no-one here but the two of them. Greg's playful side often surfaces in the bedroom; married life has involved a very gratifying amount of creativity.

The hopeful shine in Greg's gaze is what convinces him. By way of consent, he gives his lover a slight smile and lifts his chin.

His last sight is his husband's grin; Greg eases the blindfold down. Mycroft is surprised to find it's rather effective - the velvet had suggested a certain cheapness, but it's thickly lined and comfortable. As Greg settles it into place Mycroft inhales, stretches out his fingers and settles into the feeling of restraint.

It's curiously reassuring.

The loss of his sight brings his focus to his own bare skin, the temperature of the room and Greg's familiar weight across his thighs. He finds himself enjoying the gentle stroke of his lover's hands across his chest. He can hear Greg's heartbeat and his breath. If he concentrates, he can hear the flicker of the candles on the bedside.

"All okay?" Greg murmurs.

Mycroft finds him another smile. "Mm..."

"Good." Greg leans in close to kiss his neck. The soft, wet stroke of Greg's mouth is edged by a slight brush of stubble, and Mycroft's hips stir with interest of their own volition. "Fuck after you've fed?" Greg says, softly. "Or now?"

The casual nature of the question is rather evocative. Mycroft shivers, and his hands tighten.

"Now." He closes his eyes behind the mask, a sweep of deeper darkness. "During."

"Mmhm..." Greg's tongue flicks at his earlobe. "Want me on you, gorgeous? Or inside you?"

Mycroft's inner thighs ache at once. He pulls again at the ropes just to feel them, wondering what precisely is coming here - and why it's intriguing him so much.

"Inside me," he says, shaking a little. There's something about Greg looking after him while he feeds - something deeply settling. "Take me."

"Mhmm. Good." Greg eases his weight to one side, and for a short while he's gone somewhere across the bed. Mycroft hears him searching through their drawer. He breathes in, parting his legs and drawing them up; it will be easier if Greg holds them. The very thought makes his cock pulse. Restrained here, held and fucked. "Greg?"

"M'here, gorgeous..." Greg comes back to him. A gentle hand brushes over his stomach, as Greg eases into place between his legs. "Right here... you comfy like this?"

Mycroft shudders. "Yes," he whispers. Greg's lubricated fingers glide at once behind his testicles; Mycroft tightens, gasping. _"Yes - "_

"Mm hmm?" Greg rubs outside for a while, circling the ring of muscle and slowly teasing. "Nice to be tied?"

_God help me._ "I-It's - r-rather stirring - "

Greg's first finger breaches him, coaxing its way inside. Mycroft bites back a groan. There's a catch to Greg's voice that he likes. "You look amazing, Myke..."

Mycroft curls his fingers around the ropes, gripping them.

"Greg..." The whisper leaves him of its own volition; he lets his head fall back. "I m-missed you - "

"I know, beautiful... you're home now. Safe at home, and I'll look after you. Just relax for me."

Mycroft lets it trickle through his soul. _Safe at home. Just relax._

Greg takes the time to tease him - slowly, gently, toying with his fingers until Mycroft trembles against the restraints and pants a little with each slick thrust. He wants Greg inside him, pressed close to him; he wants the feeling of being gently gathered to his husband's neck. _Sixteen days._ He wants to drink while Greg makes love to him - to fill his mouth and indulge, enjoy the taste, the warmth, the strength flowing back into his veins, Greg's cock giving him everything he needs... he wants it more than he wants to breathe.

"Ready?" Greg whispers, after what feels like an eternity. Mycroft pulls at the restraints.

"Yes," he begs, shaking. "Yes - " His breath catches as Greg's fingers withdraw. His husband's hands slide gently beneath his knees, lifting them, parting them, and the hot surge of excitement that sears through Mycroft is enough to fry his senses for a second. _Held open. Tied. Ready to be fucked. To be fed._

_Yes - oh Christ - yes, yes -_

The head of Greg's cock nuzzles into place. Mycroft whines, bucking down.

"Fill me," he pleads, panting. "F-Fill me, Greg - "

Greg begins to push home - aching through his body, stretching, massage oil and hot skin and his husband's thick cock, hard as steel and pushing inside him. Mycroft wrenches at the ropes.

_"Fuck...! Fuck - yes - "_

Greg's forehead presses against his own; they share breath through the last few inches, panting together.

"F-Fuck..." Greg's voice roughens. "Fuck, I missed you... oh, fuck - _fuck_ \- grip me, gorgeous - squeeze me - "

Mycroft obeys, his chest heaving as he bears down against the thick intrusion. His husband shudders against him, groaning, then buries himself to the root, gasping, digging his fingers into Mycroft's hips. It feels so good to be gripped that Mycroft sobs. It feels good to be held in place.

As Greg begins to move, Mycroft lets out a cry and tries to arch. The ropes hold fast.

He can only pant through his teeth as his husband fucks him. Greg's groans in his ear are divine. Mycroft twists against the restraints, just to feel his inability to move - his only option is to take. It burns through him like a tremor of white flame beneath his skin. He moans it out, swallowing in desperation as Greg kisses and bites gently at his neck. _Taken. Fucked._ It flashes through his mind that Greg could do anything to him in this moment, and the rush of trust and love that wells up is enough to short-circuit his brain. He whines, overwhelmed, offering Greg more of his neck. His husband shivers and exhales, then bites down - marking Mycroft, gripping him. Mycroft moans with frantic enjoyment as he writhes against the ties. He whimpers feeling Greg suck at the bite, drawing blood to the surface; in response Greg starts to fuck him harder.

Before long, familiar tremors begin low in Mycroft's body. They ripple through him as hot and grasping waves of pressure, clenching and releasing, and the pleasure that aches in their wake is deep and intense.

Just as he's about to give a warning, Greg slows and holds inside him - breathing, shivering. Mycroft grips the ropes around his wrists.

"Now?" Greg hums in his ear.

Mycroft's mouth floods with saliva. He whimpers, swallowing back as much of it as he can.

"Now," he whispers, contracting around Greg's cock. His teeth begin to sting. "N-Now, Greg - _please_ \- "

He expects Greg to lean forwards, and draw Mycroft close to his neck.

Instead, Greg seems to be leaning back a little.

Mycroft tugs at his restraints, panting in concern. He realises Greg has reached towards the bedside.

"Greg?" He turns his head, seeing nothing. Panic stirs. "Greg - what - "

"Shhh, baby... it's alright... m'still here..." Greg's voice is breathless from their sex, but full of warmth and love. "M'right here, gorgeous. Just give me a minute..."

"W-What - what are you - ?"

There's a second's pause - then he hears Greg hiss. There comes the sudden, distinct scent of blood, sharp and sweet and dark, and Mycroft's fangs wrench their way through his jaw. His entire body burns with the rush of heat.

"Greg..." The word leaves him as a groan; his muscles convulse. _"Greg - "_

Greg stirs, leaning closer. His cock slides deep once more. Mycroft quivers around it, panting, his teeth sharp and his pulse thudding hard.

"Open your mouth," Greg murmurs.

Mycroft's hands clench around the ropes. Trembling, he gasps, "Why?"

"Do it, gorgeous. Soon."

Uncertain, Mycroft warily opens his mouth.

He feels something drop onto his tongue, then roll back into his mouth.

As he realises what it is, Mycroft hauls at the ropes binding him to the bed. They hold him fast. His blood ignites and his teeth snap at empty air, his hips twisting down against Greg's cock.

_"Greg...!"_

He can feel Greg watching him. He can feel Greg enjoying it.

_"Greg, please - "_

Greg waits. Mycroft can almost see him smiling, taking in his desperation, admiring the flush that rages across his face.

"Open up again," Greg says, gently. Mycroft groans with despair.

"G-Greg - Greg, _please_ \- pplease, I - "

"Open, gorgeous, or you'll lose it."

Mycroft opens his mouth wide. He waits, shaking against his bonds.

When the single drop comes it melts across his tongue - glorious and hot, iron and sugar and salt - it's not enough. Mycroft sobs and writhes himself downwards onto Greg's cock, panting, throwing his head back against the headboard.

"Greg... f-for god's sake... _Greg - "_

He can hear Greg's smile. "Just my finger, sweetheart. Don't worry... here."

There comes a gentle stroke against his lower lip, swiping the copper sweetness of blood right across it. Mycroft tries to catch it with his mouth, whimpering, but it's gone before he can get hold.

He's left licking the blood in desperation from his lip, as all of his senses scream in frustration and delight.

"Told you you could have a proper drink," Greg murmurs, softly. "Told you you could take your time..."

He catches Mycroft's chin with his other hand, tilting his head back. In quivering obedience Mycroft opens his mouth.

"I could probably do this for hours," Greg remarks, idly. "Still wouldn't lose that much blood..."

Mycroft nearly bends one of the slats in their bed as he writhes.

The drop of blood on his tongue comes like ice water across a burn. It sings through his senses, frying them into nothing, his entire body aching for more. He sobs, his throat convulsing with the need to drink, every instinct howling at him to bite and hold on and drain.

"Tongue out," Greg murmurs. "You can lick, gorgeous. No sucking."

Mycroft wonders if this constitutes grounds for divorce. He can't decide; he's too busy trying not to pass out or come. He sticks out his tongue, and as the cut is offered to him, he laps at it furiously.

Greg draws the finger back, teasing. It forces Mycroft to follow it to the furthest extent of his neck, with the furthest extent of his tongue, and his frantic licks bring him that intoxicating taste but no relief. His heart's pounding; he can feel his balls drawing tight.

As he laps, Greg begins to move inside him again - easy, shallow bumps in time with his own licks. Mycroft grips at his ties and licks faster. Greg speeds in response, fucking him just as he likes and Mycroft moans - but the welling of blood is diluted by faster licks. It's not enough.

Mycroft huffs in frustration, slowing. Greg slows with him too.

Panting, his eyes screwed shut beneath the blindfold, Mycroft forces himself to wait long enough for a drop to form. He can smell it; he can almost taste it. Waiting even seconds for it to grow is agonising. His husband holds still inside him, half-withdrawn from Mycroft's body, and Mycroft realises what will happen the second his tongue appears.

"Th-this is cruel," he whimpers, clawing his fingers into the ropes. He aches to be filled, aches to be fucked - aches to be fed. He's never felt this needy, this safe.

His husband's grin is all too audible. "Kinda fun, though."

Mycroft nearly dies.

_"Please,"_ he gasps. "Please Greg - _please_ \- "

"D'you want this drop? Best catch it, beautiful, or it'll fall..."

Mycroft groans, braces and sweeps his tongue across Greg's fingertip. The flood of taste is followed by a deep, firm thrust inside him. He clenches with a whimper, huffing, trying to tighten his legs around his husband's waist. He wants to hold Greg still, hold him there, so he can at least buck down upon his cock.

Laughing softly, Greg lets him.

"Something you want, gorgeous...?"

_Oh, god. Oh god, don't tease me. You utter bastard._ Mycroft grasps onto his ropes, holding them tight, and uses the grip as leverage to grind his hips up and down. The thick, rhythmic rub of his husband's cock against his prostate is heaven and he groans; it's almost enough to distract from the scent of Greg's blood.

Greg's fingertip sweeps along the seam of his lips again. Mycroft huffs, fighting it. He twists his head, determined he shan't be teased. Idly Greg brushes back and forth, stroking him with the scent, with the promise of taste.

"Give in, Myke," he whispers. "Open up. I'll let you suck for a while."

Mycroft shakes against his bonds. "F-For how long?"

"I'm not sure," Greg murmurs, and presses his finger gently at the seam of Mycroft's lips - coaxing, persuading. "How long d'you think it'll take me to fuck you close to coming?"

"Oh - _fuck - "_

"Let's say ten minutes. Then, obviously, I'm gonna edge you... _both_ ways... and we'll go back to drops for a while. We'll see how many times I can edge you before you're in danger of breaking our bed. Then I'm going to fuck you, _hard,_ while I give you my neck and let you finish. How's that sound?"

_Holy fucking Christ._

"M-Marry me," Mycroft whimpers, clenching around his husband's cock. "Please."

"Too late, gorgeous. Got there already." Greg's finger pushes at last between his lips, into his mouth, sliding across his tongue with a fresh swipe of blood. Mycroft whimpers, tightens his thighs and starts to suck. "Mmhm... love you, sweetheart... enjoy it."

By the time that Mycroft comes, screaming out against Greg's neck and bowing the headboard nearly in half, the playlist has looped twice - and the porter has logged two noise complaints.

 

* * *

 

Gentle cuddles in the lamplight are paused only for Greg to check on the bath. He's everything Mycroft needs in this moment - soft words, loving eye contact, tender fingertips grazing up and down the hypersensitive skin of his side. Mycroft can barely think. The world seems to drift in a contented fog of hormones and warmth and relief, and he can feel strength seeping once again through his veins.

At last, with the bath run, Greg gently takes his hands.

"C'mon, gorgeous... you can sleep in the bath, if you want..."

As he sinks into the hot water, and his husband's protective arms wrap around him, Mycroft is convinced this amount of pleasure shouldn't exist. He nestles against Greg's chest with a slow and heady sigh, and rests his head on Greg's shoulder. Joy courses through his veins in lazy pulses.

He kisses at the neat white square of surgical dressing.

"Are you light-headed at all?" he murmurs. His voice is faint, soft. "Dizzy?"

Greg huffs, sliding wet fingers through his hair.

"No," he says, cupping the back of Mycroft's head, and Mycroft can feel the tender smile against his forehead. "Not at all. M'fine, gorgeous... you probably took much less than normal. Feel like I've short-changed you."

Mycroft stirs, tilting his head into the stroking fingers. He feels rather deliciously tactile.

There is a conversation to have though, and better now than in the morning.

"Dangerous," he says, with a slight lift of his eyebrow. "Teasing."

"Not if we're careful. You've got loads of self-control, and you're experienced - regularly fed... it'd only be dangerous if you're very tired, very angry or showing other symptoms of frenzy. Gentle playtime is fine."

Mycroft's brow furrows; the confident tone is rather intriguing. "You seem well-informed on this subject..."

Greg grins against his forehead.

"I - asked on the forum. Everyone says hi."

_Oh, lord._ Mycroft suppresses a sigh. "As if our sex life isn't discussed there quite enough..."

"It was an interesting chat, actually. You should have a read tomorrow. You'll, erm... probably have been tagged a few times." Greg begins to rub Mycroft's scalp with slow, firm and idle circles; pleasure aches in the path of his fingers. Mycroft finds himself even less inclined to annoyance than he was before. "Good to know that getting rid of sight seems to help. I'll report back."

Mycroft huffs. He feels his mouth curving into a smile of its own will.

"You're now experimenting on me," he says, "for the curiosity of the internet?"

"S'important," Greg says. He kisses Mycroft's head. "Means other people will be safer... I'm a mod now, gorgeous. I have a responsibility to the community."

Mycroft has never so keenly wanted him to marry him again. "How _are_ your timid flock of newbies?"

"They're fine," Greg says. "They're all really good. Just nice people." The fondness in his voice is rather moving. "Honestly, it... gave me something to do in the evening while you were away. Better than sitting and worrying. Anthea's not as much fun to chat to as you are."

"I thought that you and Mr Tierney have plenty of cases at the moment?"

"Mnh. We do, it's just... there comes a point at night I can't work, and I want to relax with you." Greg's arms tighten around him, gently. "Helped me feel close to you while you were gone, chatting to them all. I'm - glad we have the forum. Helps."

Mycroft is glad, too.

He was initially nervous about Greg's tentative new steps into the forum. Realising it came from a wish to care for him, and to understand his experiences, made things easier - and he supposed in the end that their connection was already known to Excultus. The worst case scenario had already occurred. He now keeps a gentle eye on Greg's activity, ensuring nothing is shared that will identify them outside of the community.

But in truth, he's relieved that Greg has that outlet.

He's glad a support network exists for his partner. He's proud that Greg now acts as a shepherd for new members, helping them take their first steps into a world that Greg himself had to learn at speed.

And Mycroft has to admit - it's rather nice to speak as half of a pair-bond. The marriage between Defender of the People and Tuatara is now well known; they are often sought for advice. They are both happy to give it.

Tilting his head, Mycroft kisses the corner of his husband's jaw. His eyes close as the small kiss is returned.

"Was all that okay for you?" Greg murmurs against his hair. "I - didn't go too far, did I?"

Mycroft smiles.

"No, not too far. Not at all." He brushes his fingertips through Greg's chest hair, dampening it fondly. "You've been contemplating that for a while, have you?"

Greg bites his lip. "I've... been thinking about it. Yeah."

"I hope I'm never subjected to that level of merciless torment outside of our bedroom."

"Frankly, gorgeous, I wouldn't dare... I know I wouldn't get away with it."

"You would not," Mycroft agrees. He strokes his toes slowly down one of Greg's shins, enjoying the slide of their skin beneath the water. "Regardless of whether yacht mooring rope is utilising."

Greg grins a little; his fingers graze Mycroft's waist.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asks after a moment, softly.

Mycroft experiences a flash of a new memory, one he'll now be revisiting for the rest of his life: heaving at the ropes that bind his wrists behind his back, panting as his husband's cock grinds against his prostate, whimpering his pleas for just one more drop.

He sits up enough to look into Greg's eyes, brushing their noses together.

"Yes," he says. "I enjoyed it very much, Greg."

Greg's eyes shine. The puppyish warmth of his smile is perfection.

Mycroft finds himself smiling in return, adoring this man who has chosen him above any other - a man who loves him, misses him when he is gone, wants to make his life not just easier but more enjoyable, more _playful,_ more pleasurable.

His heart beats with it, searching his husband's eyes.

"I cherish you," he whispers. He watches Greg's face open. "You are my greatest joy - in all things, Greg. Rest and play. Each time I think I couldn't possibly feel safer with you - couldn't possibly feel more loved - you find some new way to astonish me."

"Myke..." Greg looks almost lost; he lifts a hand to Mycroft's cheek, stroking it with his fingertips. "I _love_ you. More right now than ever."

Mycroft's smile comes from the soul. He presses it gently to his husband's lips, and listens to Greg's pulse quicken in response.

"M'glad you're home, gorgeous," Greg whispers into the kiss. He runs his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "Missed you."

Mycroft wraps Greg slowly in his arms.

"I'm glad you _are_ my home," he says.

 


End file.
